


The Boy King

by maydei



Series: TBK and Extras [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Apocalypse, Azazel's Special Children, Blood and Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Consensual, Developing Relationship, F/M, Hell, Lucifer's Cage, M/M, Minor Character Death, Relationship(s), Sam 'Boy King of Hell' Winchester, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 105,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/pseuds/maydei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It always had to be Sam Winchester. The 'when, where, and how' were up for debate.</p><p>Sam was born to be King—and this time, he'll be raised that way.</p><p>HIATUS, NOT DISCONTINUED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1:1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a long time in coming. It's still in progress, so regular posting will take a while to figure out, but I'm hoping that putting up a chapter will help motivate me to work faster.
> 
> All things considered, this fic will likely end up being considerably lengthy and probably split into separate arcs. This is the beginning of the first arc, which will be known as 'Part One'. 
> 
> If there are any major warnings, I'll try to post them at the beginning of each chapter.
> 
> Fasten your seatbelts and get the salt. This might get messy.

  


  


It was dark; the house across the street—a simple, two-story ranch-type affair—was quiet and still, aside from a light flickering downstairs, filtering pale through the curtains of the living room. It had been days since he’d began watching them, standing on the corner of the block, smoking under a streetlamp. The light pulsed and sputtered with the disturbance of his presence, and yet, no one noticed the strange man who had returned every night for the past week.

His gaze moved to the upper level, a window on the corner of the house; and _there._ _That_ was what he was here for, what he had been searching and waiting for, now, for _years._ And now was the time to strike.

It took barely a thought before he was inside, sharp eyes surveying the room—small, framed illustrations on the walls of historic automobiles, patterned curtains, a lantern hung high on the wall in the shape of a glowing crescent moon. The clock on the wall, which depicted the evolution of transportation in tiny, colored images, stopped ticking upon his arrival.

Murky, bile-colored eyes turned with rapt fascination to the crib, and the glorious creature that lay within. The human boy was small, and despite the late hour, his eyes were open and curious. Both boy and... _man_ watched each other with the same sort of curiosity. Tiny hands reached toward the mysterious figure standing over his crib; the man, in turn, offered one finger for the child to latch onto with a surprisingly strong grip.

Embroidered onto the blanket that held the boy was the name _Samuel_.

“Samuel,” said the man, testing the name he knew would one day be more important than any of the other insignificant fleas on the planet. “Sammy, Sam. Sam Winchester.”

When he heard the noise in the hall, the man took a moment to weigh his options—stay, and kill the intruder? No. Just like his once-plan to tap a vein to feed the human child, this was discarded. It took little more than a thought for him to blend into the darkness and watch as the woman entered, pretty and blonde and holding Sam like she had every right to do so. The minutes he stood watching, unknown, were the longest of his life; he _itched_ to slaughter the human bitch and take his charge, but he had to be patient. Patience would win the day, here.

In the short eternity between Mary Winchester entering and leaving the room, Azazel made up his mind and knew what he would have to do. He waited, watched, as Mary gathered her husband from the downstairs and brought him up to bed, and did the same for herself. And, finally, when all the lights were out and the doors were locked, Azazel reached into the crib to take hold of the cooing child and disappeared into the night.

  


* * *

  


For most demons, the descent into Hell was a painful thing wrought with screaming and cursing and wailing that was nothing short of pathetic. For Azazel, though, it was much like coming home; passing through the boundaries between Hell and Earth, from greens and blues into rust-reds and dried-blood-browns, the stench of sulfur and fire and smoke more a balm than any cool breeze could ever provide. And the heat—well, it was all-around much preferred.

His vessel had been left topside, discarded; the vessel of Sam, though, was nothing short of sacred. With strict instructions and a veritable army watching over the infant’s physical form, Azazel had delicately extracted the bright, pure soul and held it close as he descended. Now, inside the depths of his domain, the sight was something strange and new.

Hell had always been dark, hot, rent with the smoke of sulfur and demons and the waves of heat that would be torture to any human soul, alone. However, the soul of Sam did not so much as stir, the echo of Sam’s physical form still curled, content, in the arms of Hell’s most feared demon. Instead of crying and sniveling, as most humans were wont to do in the presence of the torture of Hell, this child dreamed peacefully and silently.

A special child, indeed.

And more, the glow from the infant’s fragile form was something even Azazel had never seen—inside this place of red and brown and gray and black, this soul was _radiant_ with an aura of white, like a singular light in the center of a dark room. Here in Hell, it was clear that Sam Winchester did not belong among the filth, and his purity was such potency that he cast a glow onto even the most tortured and tormented. That it even cast reflection onto Azazel, the de facto King of Hell, was only proof that this child was truly sacred and that Azazel had made the right choice.

The journey to the Cage was long and arduous, even in his own territory, but Azazel took care if only for the soul in his grasp. It was true that Hell was made of Levels, with the deepest and darkest left for the very worst of Earth’s sinners; that was the Eighth Level. The Ninth was held at the very core of Hell and Earth, a prison never meant to be opened but for by God himself. The bars were tall and strong and mighty, made of the most pure light; it was rumored by those very few demons that had ever seen the Cage that its bars were made from Heaven’s Gates—a thing of purity that demons could never touch for fear of burning and purging from the inside out; but also to keep the Cage’s singular charge trapped and locked inside, powerless and obedient to the whims of the great Father of All Creation.

And wasn’t that term laughable? Azazel approached and stared with loathing at the Cage that held _his_ creator in eternal torment and sorrow. Lucifer, God’s own light-bringer, was kept trapped in the bowels of this place. Azazel had even wondered once if, had Lucifer never been trapped here, Hell would have remained in the very pitch-black.

He had no way of knowing, not for sure. In truth, the only way he had found the Cage at all was because Lucifer had told him once more than an Earth-decade ago, when Azazel had earned his title as the Most-Feared: _the one who desecrated Holy Ground with the blood of the worshipful_. It was that act that truly gained Azazel his crown—a burden which he wished he truly could pass over.

But, now. He had completed his task on this day, collected the Child. It was a day of triumph and glory.

It was the Beginning of the End.

“Father,” Azazel nearly crooned to the Cage, still alight with his own triumph. “I’ve done it, I stole you the boy.”

The response he felt was _thrilling_ ; a sharp wave of potent feeling, curiosity, surprise, fathomless interest. And, inside, Azazel saw the glow of Lucifer’s essence, a glow to outshine even the sacred boy, condense and take form. From inside the Cage, a massive light no longer strained for freedom, but the shaped and molded image of a man—tall, strong, brunette, and Azazel knew not who this man was, only that it was the first time he had ever seen his Father resembling _human_ —stood silent and expectant.

The look, now, was strange; no longer was the Cage a huge thing bearing residence to a huge creature, but a prison cell far too large for the man who was trapped inside it now, hands curled tightly around the bars and backlit by a white and empty void that led he knew not where.

“Show me,” Lucifer demanded, eyes locked on that tiny glow that Azazel held close.

Azazel would never begrudge his creator this, despite that it was _Azazel_ who had just triumphed. No, this was not his victory, not really. This was a victory that was purely in Lucifer’s name, carried out by Azazel’s hand.

Cautiously, Azazel drew closer to the Cage, hovering as closely as he dared without facing repercussion. In his arms, he rearranged the infant’s soul, cradled as a parent might. Lucifer’s eyes, unfamiliar and beautifully hazel, traced the features of the child again and again, drinking in the sight as though he’d been starved for this—and, Azazel thought, maybe he had.

“Whose is that face?” Azazel asked curiously.

“It’s the face that will be mine,” Lucifer replied, and the yellow-eyed demon was _floored_ when Lucifer reached through the bars, his fingertips drifting over the child’s rounded cheek. Lucifer’s eyes narrowed. “Give him to me.”

Azazel felt the burn of the Cage’s light against his hands as he held out the child, who Lucifer had taken and drawn into the Cage only moments later.

“How?” Azazel asked.

“He’s pure,” Lucifer answered. “Not a demon, so he can pass through, but he’s not an angel, so he can also leave. But his soul is faltering.” Cradling the child in one arm, Lucifer raised the other to him, biting down sharply on the pad of his thumb. Azazel nearly expected light to spill forth, but instead, it was blood—blood that Lucifer then lowered to the infant’s mouth, both angel and demon watching with rapt fascination as the tiny human soul latched on as it might to a mother and _fed._

“My Grace,” Lucifer answered to the unasked question. “He’ll be sustained, nourished, as fledgling souls must be.” Then, with the unfamiliar face and eyes of a man claimed to be Lucifer’s future, the archangel commanded, “Leave. Return at tomorrow’s eve; I’ll have instructions for his care. For now, he will stay until such a time as he no longer can. And spread the word, Azazel—Hell’s Boy-King has arrived.”


	2. 1:2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that I'll be working with a weekly posting schedule so I don't get too far ahead of myself. You can expect new chapters on Tuesdays (I know the last chapter was on Wednesday, but I don't think we need the emotional abuse that comes with new fic chapters AND new episodes of Supernatural). This chapter's a little on the short side, but they'll start getting longer soon.

Lucifer watched as Azazel left, striding away with head held high and nearly shaking with excitement—but then, Azazel had always been excitable. Perhaps Lucifer should have praised him for his victory, because this _was_ a victory, the greatest victory of Hell since the beginning of time.

Sam Winchester, here. Sam Winchester, _his._

Yes, Lucifer would praise his general upon his return. The morrow’s eve, then.

But, until then...

Lucifer settled into the Cage, still molded into his favorite appearance— _Sam_. Azazel would not have recognized him on sight, but no one would have, aside from perhaps God himself. But, still, Lucifer doubted.

He doubted any angel had ever been so attuned to a human, but perhaps he had _God_ to thank for that. With all Lucifer’s time occupied by the Cage, he had precious little else to keep himself occupied other than waiting and watching, observing Sam from distant and afar.

 _That_ was Hell more than any other, watching Sam alive and alone, clueless and ignorant of his importance and greater purpose...

“Samuel,” Lucifer said quietly, repeating the name over and over as he had for hundreds of years, but it was so amazingly different when he had Sam _here._ He wondered if this was what human _joy_ felt like, having his true vessel and the carrier of a piece of Lucifer’s soul so close.

 _Finally,_ he mused as he watched Sam feed from his blood and his Grace. _Victory, and it is sweet._ Sam would have to feed often today, and it would probably leave Lucifer reasonably drained. That was hardly a problem; by Lucifer’s estimation, he would not be able to let Sam back into the Cage for a long time. A very long time. Long enough to replenish whatever Grace he freely gave, and long enough for Sam to wither and fade if he was too selfish to make the sacrifice.

With Sam sustained on his Grace, he would grow as he should have, on Earth’s time. It would be an arduous process at first, with over a hundred years in Hell for each year of Sam’s growth. But, later, when Sam was older and capable of learning skills and techniques, it would give them a far greater allowance.

 _His_ Sam.

He would become the _perfect_ vessel. Azazel would rear him, teach Sam the ways of Hell and its politics, and train him to rule over all the filthy, stupid demons that made up a majority of this, Lucifer’s prison. Then, years from now, Sam could learn to fight, to speak the tongues of Heaven and Earth, to manipulate those beneath him. Sam would acquire knowledge of anything and everything, filling his soul with knowledge until he was the most learned human to exist.

And then, when the time came that Sam would ruthlessly break Lucifer from this wretched Cage, they would be together and one, perfectly whole, and all the pain and torture of Lucifer’s existence would be worth it.

“What a perfect little creature,” Lucifer murmured, gently extracting his hand from Sam’s grip, Lucifer’s curious fingers tracing the curves and planes of his future vessel’s form. Even though Lucifer himself was emulating the body that Sam would grow to become, the _real_ Sam was much more enthralling, especially when he could _feel_ the echo of a distant heartbeat in the curve of his neck, a flutter in his chubby wrist, a steady pounding of life and blood when he lay his hand over the infant’s heart, Lucifer’s hand spanning little Sam’s entire torso.

With Sam done feeding, the boy finally opened his eyes, wide and huge and hazel and so _trusting_. He watched Lucifer with unguarded interest, as children usually did. And, Lucifer knew, Sam’s curiosity would only grow with time, as would his capacity for knowledge, learning, and love. Sam would love more than any human was capable, Lucifer was certain. And that curious mind would fixate on innumerable things in his lifetime, dedicating to them all his focus and attention.

That Lucifer was _meant_ to have this human was beyond fate or divine providence.

Lucifer had never touched a human before, or even laid hand on a human soul. He had twisted Lilith, but that wasn’t physical and required little—not that it had even been his idea. She’d asked for what she’d gotten, _begged_ to be something other, more. And, still, he had never laid hand on her, or any.

But holding Sam, balancing him carefully in the curve of his arms, raising the babe to his chest and allowing his head to rest in the curve of Lucifer’s neck and shoulder—it felt natural. He felt no disgust for the dampness on the corner of the child’s mouth, nor for the clumsy grip of tiny fingers that latched onto the image of his clothes. What _should_ have seemed a pathetic, repulsive creature, now only was the promise of something great to come. And, Lucifer found he could not deny his enamored fascination when he turned his face into the infant’s hair, soft and immeasurably fine, even the subtle scent of the child momentarily chasing away the smell of sulfur.

“You’ll be great someday, Sam,” Lucifer said quietly. “Powerful, unconquerable. When the time comes for us to become whole, you’ll know nothing like it, I think. You’ll grow unlike any other child, two decades of growth spread over two millennia, a child of Earth stuck in the time of Hell. With Azazel and his children, you will learn patience and discipline, pride and modesty, how to live on little more than the air you breathe, but in their care, you will want for nothing. You will be raised as a warrior of Heaven and a demon of Hell; your only signs of the plague of humanity will be in the body you will inhabit and the love in your heart. Even then, both of these things are both a blessing and a curse.”

Idly, Lucifer let his lips linger over the child’s temple, allowing a moment of weakness for his eyes to flutter closed. “You will know joy and sorrow, love and heartbreak, as humans do, and then I will teach you to hide them, to bury them until even you will have trouble finding them. You will have family, a home. You will have everything you always wanted but could never have, and you will learn to treasure it.”

Sam cooed quietly, and when Lucifer pulled back just enough to look at the child, the boy’s face was lit by a gummy smile, wriggling one hand free and batting at Lucifer’s cheek.

“You’re still so happy in the depths of the Pit, you clueless thing,” Lucifer groused, borrowed mouth twitching toward a fond smile. “Enjoy your moment while it lasts.”

Then he decided to follow his own advice, clutching the child close for a while longer.

 

* * *

 

 

The next night, when Azazel returned, Sam’s glow had intensified tenfold, and there were dark shadows under Lucifer’s borrowed eyes. Azazel dared not comment on the look of his creator, but from Lucifer’s sharp glance, Azazel knew his thoughts were revealed.

“He will be sustained,” Lucifer said shortly. “From now on, Azazel, you will raise Samuel as your own; _never_ forget to whom he truly belongs. He will grow at a human’s pace, and patience with him will not be easy, but you _will_ have it. If he is so much as scratched, I will flay you inch by inch on the day that I am freed.”

“Understood, My Lord,” Azazel replied, far from intimidated. He’d had no intention of letting Sam come to harm anyway; he kind of liked the kid.

“You will raise him well, Azazel. Your children are fine examples of this. Sam will know them as his siblings. Ensure that you demonstrate everything clearly—human minds are fragile at this state, but they observe everything. He will learn, so teach him. Speak in languages; English and Latin to begin with, work your way up to Old Enochian—I know you remember enough.”

They shared a long look. There was a reason, after all, that Azazel was Lucifer’s general.

“Anything else, padre?” Yellow-Eyes asked, glancing at the child that Lucifer still held.

“Yes. Sam is a human soul, pure and untainted; keep him that way. With my Grace sustaining him, he will be able to enter the Cage, but so long as he remains human, he will be able to exit. This isn’t a fix-all; the Cage is sentient, it will recognize him if he stays for long. For every year of his human growth, I estimate that he will have twenty-four of our hours in here with me before the Cage locks him in.”

“One day for every century of service; should I call you Captain, Davy Jones?”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes in frustrated exasperation. “Would you _like_ to keep your tongue, Azazel? It’s made of such fine silver, after all.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Azazel gave Lucifer a cheeky grin. “Be good to the kid, grow him right, make him smart. Meg’s wanted a _pup_ of her own for a while; a little sibling, an _heir_ to her legacy, if you will.”

“That is acceptable,” Lucifer replied. “And do not allow Sam’s vessel to come to harm. That is of the _utmost_ importance.”

“I’ve got a squadron with eyes on the kid and one of mine keeping him warm, so to speak. He’ll make sure our Sammy’s in prime form by the time we’re ready to blow the lid off the hotpot.”

“I hope you understand the seriousness of this situation, Azazel, for your sake.” Lucifer’s gaze was narrow, intense, and, if Azazel was being honest with himself, not just a little frightening. But Azazel was also not an easy man to shake—not visibly, even for the rightful King of Hell.

“Always serious, padre—serious is my favorite thing. _Dead_ serious,” Yellow-Eyes said, holding out his arms in preparation to take the child. _The_ child. Hell’s Boy King to-be.

Lucifer did not hand him over right away; instead, Lucifer raised the sleeping child from where it slept against his shoulder, holding Sam in his arms, his eyes obsessively scanning the lines of Sam’s face.

“I will see you again, my Sam,” he said so quietly that Azazel could hardly hear. “ _Bliar chiso bransg il brgdo._ ”

Azazel’s Enochian was more than a little rusty, but he managed to pick apart the simple protective words: _comfort shall guard thy sleep._ How sweet.

“He’ll be safe,” Azazel said. “I guard my children well; I’ll do the same for him.”

Carefully, Lucifer relinquished his bracing hold, passing the infant slowly through the bars. Azazel’s hands began to sizzle at the proximity, but only pulled back when he was sure his grip on Sam was secure.

“Be sure that you do,” Lucifer replied darkly, his shadowed eyes locked on the child.

Azazel turned and left, Sam held in his arms. Behind him, he heard the furious shriek of an angel bursting forth from a borrowed human form.

The child he held startled awake and began to cry.

 

 

 


	3. 1:3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Tuesday, another chapter! For those of us dealing with college finals, may the odds be ever in your favor, since they're most certainly not in mine.
> 
> Here is a lovely [fanart](http://legit-piano-mangler.tumblr.com/post/52416728484/so-i-made-this-art-for-lucs-awesome-fic-the-boy) done by **wehavebeenreborn** , WHO IS FABULOUS AND MY FAVORITE OMG. BEST.

As expected, Meg was thrilled at the prospect of a protégé of her own, bonding quickly with the pure, human soul, taking the infant gladly for the first, long years. And they _were_ long—for much of the first, Sam was inconsolable, crying out for the angel that was far out of his grasp. When the boy slept, it was fitfully, pitiful whimpers and reaching hands in response to something they could not see.

That first year was one of the longest; the rest started to come easier, after that.

Sam’s growth was slow; as Lucifer had estimated, the human’s year of growth paralleled Earth’s time, and as such, one hundred and twenty years would have to pass before Sam would reach closer to the age of two.

Had it been any other soul, he would have been rent asunder countless times in that first year alone; but for Sam, he was carefully cared for and unhurt for longer than any other human soul had since Hell’s creation.

Sam’s physical abilities were, doubtlessly, limited; but it became clearer that his mind was as bright as Lucifer had predicted. His hazel eyes fixed on things for longer than any child had right to, and seemed unafraid of maintaining eye-contact with anyone, Azazel included. Seeing as Lucifer’s Grace had nourished him, Sam did not grow hungry as infant souls did (or so they all assumed they must; an infant’s spiritual needs were much higher than those of children or adults). He swiftly learned that crying was far less likely to get him whatever it was that he wanted, and instead, learned to reach in the direction of whatever it was he desired—be it Meg, Azazel, or, eventually, Meg’s hounds.

Midway through that first century, Meg made the executive decision that she should introduce Sam’s soul to the hellhounds. Hellhounds were fierce and dangerous, but with Meg as their trainer, they obeyed her commands with flawless precision; if Meg made the command that a soul was not to be harmed, no hound would ever dare to touch until such a time as she reneged that order.

The hounds’ noses were unlike any other in existence; they were capable of tracking anything, no matter the distance, once they had been given the scent. Their eyesight was relatively poor, but their noses and hearing went unparalleled, and their memories were keen; hounds were capable of remembering scents, and the more familiar they grew with the scent of a soul, the more efficient they grew in tracking it.

It was a sound decision: the earlier Meg could introduce Sam and make it clear to her pets that he was far, far off-limits, the better things would be in the future.

The event went altogether better than expected—not only did Meg put in the order with her hounds that Sam was not to be harmed, but the hounds didn’t seem to know what to _do_ with the child when Meg crouched low enough for them to scent him. The combination of the soul’s purity and the sustaining Grace made them curious, but the hounds had never hunted anything but the twisted and the corrupt. Even the youngest of the pups, the ones born at the turn of the century, seemed unusually restrained as they pushed their warm, dry noses against Sam’s chubby arms.

Sam himself behaved well, aside from a few uncertain moments of squirming when the first dog approached him, and a distressed noise when a sandpapery tongue lapped at his hand. Meg dared not let him down—he was still an infant, after all, and she would not trust her hounds alone with Sam for years yet to come—but she deemed the endeavor a success when Sam tugged on the ear of a hound and the dog did not so much as growl.

Of course, Meg was the best Houndmaster that Hell had ever seen, but that was beside the point.

 

* * *

 

The day that Sam first started talking was one met by stunned silence and confusion; human development was a bit out of the demons’ depth, naturally, and the transition from baby babble to something resembling words was rather abrupt.

“Za,” Sam said determinedly, expectant look fixed on Azazel. The man looked up from his work—apparently even demons believed in having office dens—and turned back to Sam, who sat up between Meg’s legs on the floor, gumming at a teething ring that Meg had dug up from somewhere (and no one really wanted clarification as to _where_ , exactly).

Azazel blinked at the child, then gave him a considering look. “About ready to start talking, Sam?”

“Za,” Sam insisted, before looking up at Meg with wide eyes. “Ma.”

“Meg,” the woman corrected firmly, elongating the syllables. “ _Me-g_.”

“Mem,” the child tried, his obvious concentration showing in the tiny furrow between his brows. “Mem, Me—Mem.”

Meg laughed at Sam’s frustration—the child was doubtlessly smart, but having difficulty connecting his intelligence to his motor skills.

“There, there, Sammy, don’t think too hard,” Azazel said, amused, drawing the year-old’s attention. “Can you say ‘Sam’? _Sam._ ”

The child’s face twisted, but his garbled attempts at his own name were a failure.

“Come on, now, Sammy, it’s not that hard,” Yellow-Eyes crooned. “ _Sa_ - _m_.”

“...Sam,” the baby said, looking for reassurance, which he got in the form of Meg’s thrilled smile and her wriggling fingers against his belly, sending the child into a fit of convulsive giggles.

From there, the learning curve was steep—positive reinforcement seemed to be the key, and conversation, however one-sided, seemed to cement basic concepts—on, off; yes, no; hot, cold (though, admittedly, there wasn’t much cold to be found in Hell, but they managed to convey the concept of _warm_ and _don’t touch_ ). By the time Sam had been in Hell for nearly a full Earth-year, he had began to understand very basic sentence structure, an extremely precocious child that was curious about anything and everything.

“Samuel,” Azazel called into the boy’s bedroom, still fit with a crib that would not likely last much longer. The boy himself sat on the floor, surrounded by small, stone cubes in different colors that functioned like blocks. Sam had them built into a tall pile, and when Azazel called his name, he excitedly knocked them all over, proudly turning to his adoptive father and smiling with dimpled cheeks.

 _A child fit for Lucifer, indeed_ , Azazel thought with an amused grin. “Come, Sam, we’re going on a trip.”

The boy looked at him, his smile fading into a look of confusion. “Why go?”

“There’s someone who has been waiting to see you again,” Azazel answered, holding out his hand for the boy to unsteadily toddle over and grasp. The demon lifted the child onto his hip and swept from the room.

“Mem?” Sam asked.

“No, Meg will not be going with us.”

Wide eyes stared at the yellow-eyed man. “Why go?” Sam repeated uncertainly.

Azazel simply chuckled. “You’ll see, Sam.”

“No see.”

“So stubborn,” Azazel sighed, working his way through the Levels. This trip was markedly different in that Sam was starting to ask questions about the things that he saw—things a child should not have to see; bodies rent apart eternally, drowning in filth and sludge, choking on blood and smoke. But Sam was clueless, and for these questions, Azazel offered no answers. Sam eventually learned that his inquiries were going unanswered for a reason and stopped asking, watching instead with huge eyes the torture that was being inflicted on twisted souls all around.

Then, he asked, “Why?”

“Because they were bad,” Azazel answered simply, and despite the many years Azazel himself spent inflicting pain and despair, could not help but feel a distant pang of sympathy for the wide-eyed terror that was borne in Sam’s face. The boy didn’t say another word for the rest of the journey, aside from the frightened whimpers that Azazel heard even over the most piercing of screams. Still, he didn’t dare turn his eyes away, and Azazel, not for the first time, wondered exactly what was going on in that tiny, floppy-haired head of his.

When they neared the Cage, all the light in the area seemed to flare brightly in the space between the tiny Sam and the mass of _white_ inside the bars. Sam started fidgeting, making tiny, impatient noises that Azazel was sure the kid didn’t understand any better than he did—whatever was going on with the connection between Lucifer and his vessel, it was far beyond Azazel’s comprehension. Sam continued to wriggle as they got closer, and the movement was so distracting that Azazel nearly missed the flash of energy that constituted Lucifer’s Grace compacting and molding into the shape of a man that he’d only seen once, more than a century ago and who, according to Lucifer, he would see far, far into the future. The angel’s borrowed eyes were wide as the child’s Azazel held, rapt with interest and fascination and not even _trying_ to avoid seeming thrilled by the young boy’s presence. Where Sam was fidgety and restless, Lucifer had gone very still, drinking in the sight of his one-day vessel.

Azazel stopped just outside burning range of the Cage and crouched, lowering Sam to the ground. Lucifer remained still and silent. “Sam, can you go to him?”

“Why?” Sam asked, fascinated but uncertain. He’d never seen that man before.

From the Cage, Lucifer’s aura burned a little brighter.

“It’s okay, Sammy, you’ll like him,” Azazel assured the child.

“No hurt?”

“No hurt,” he agreed, glancing up to see the beginnings of a murderous look on Lucifer’s face. To him, he said, “The trip down was a little frightening, I’m afraid.”

“That best be _all_ ,” Lucifer replied in a voice that promised retribution if Sam’s state did not meet his standards.

“ _Who?_ ” Sam asked, voice lowered in a manner meant to be secretive, but hadn’t quite grasped the concept of quietness yet.

“Sam,” Lucifer crooned, crouching lower and more toward Sam’s level. “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

The child hesitated, but not much longer after that, toddling on unsteady legs toward the Cage and wiggling through the bars. Lucifer’s hands touched tiny shoulders and slid down arms still soft with baby fat to Sam’s hands, holding them in his own. “You’ve grown, little Sam,” Lucifer said with something akin to proud satisfaction.

“Big Sam,” the child insisted. “ _Big._ ”

His lips quirked in an indulgent smile as he turned his gaze back to Azazel. “Return on the morrow. I will have further instructions for you then.” The demon didn’t wait after that, turning and leaving his creator with the child of their futures.

Scooping the child up into his arms and exalting in the surprised giggle from the boy, Lucifer carried him further into his Cage and prison, its horrors muted and tempered by the presence of both archangel and vessel, replaced by a mass of featureless white. With Sam this close, Lucifer found he could manipulate the Cage more to his will; nothing was more satisfying than banishing that damning darkness to make room for the light and for Sam.

Sinking into the most comfortable space he could find, the Cage reaching up to meet him, he sat Sam beside him and bit open a vein at the base of his hand, blood and Grace welling sluggishly, and wordlessly offered it to the child. The boy looked at him with huge, clueless eyes, but either memory or instinct led him to latch on as he once had over a century ago, taking in the essence of Lucifer’s soul and power and feeding from it. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, feeling the burn in his arm as his Grace slowly drained, but watching the glow around Sam brighten and burn was more than worth it, especially when Lucifer knew that his Grace would regenerate with time. For Sam, this was necessary and worth the discomfort. Sam needed to be sustained, to grow and learn and thrive; for the time, Lucifer needed to wait and do what he could to guide Sam down the right path, even from afar.

When Sam’s hunger was sated, the child clambered into Lucifer’s lap; the archangel would not say he was _surprised_ , but the action did take him somewhat aback.

“Lu,” Sam said, shifting and pawing until he was comfortably settled with his cheek to Lucifer’s chest, tiny hands grasping tight to the echoes of Lucifer’s shirt, but with much greater strength and deliberate determination than the last time.

Lucifer allowed one arm to support the child’s back, inwardly pleased. It seemed that the renewal of his Grace into Sam’s system had awoken some sort of recall. He wondered what other sort of effects it had.

“Yes, Sam,” he answered. “Very good.”

“Want home,” Sam said quietly. “Come home?”

Lucifer brushed a finger over one brunette curl. “No, Sam. I can’t come with you when you go.”

“Why?” Sam asked, turning wide, pleading eyes up at the archangel. “Come home.” His tiny face screwed up in concentration. “...please.”

“I can’t,” Lucifer repeated softly. “Not yet, but one day, we will be together and whole. _Home_. But not yet.”

Sam buried his face in the soft, worn fabric of Lucifer’s shirt and thermal, the favored clothes of a thousand other Sams in a thousand other worlds, all of which he had been forced to watch from afar. Even still, with this Sam, _his_ Sam, he would have to do the same. He would have to be patient.

“Why?” Sam asked again, pitifully.

Lucifer sighed, almost envying the innocent naivety of the boy. Almost. “When you’re older, Sam, you’ll understand.”


	4. 1:4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the lateness and the short chapter. I finally finished my finals and was driving home through Tuesday, and then got sucked into sleep and Doctor Who. Next week's is quite the thing, though. 
> 
> In the meantime, Happy Holidays to all!

Sam’s Terrible Twos were a nightmare for everyone involved; the suddenly-toddler ran rampant through the halls of Hell’s Castle like a switch had been flipped on overnight, screaming and shouting and driving the lesser demons to distraction. When Meg’s hounds would bark, Sam would howl in return, and the resulting noise was earsplitting torture enough that some demons lay off their work altogether.

Azazel, however, saw Sam’s boundless energy as an opportunity, and began teaching the boy to wield shivs—for now, only on wooden practice targets. Sam’s enthusiasm for fighting was immense, and so Azazel realized that Sam would eventually need a teacher; one intelligent, ruthless and competent, and who would be fiercely loyal to the word of their Lord in not harming the child.

So began the strenuous task of releasing Lilith from her own prison, nearly as deep in Hell as Lucifer’s. The process took nearly a decade, using a combination of Lilith’s fury and Azazel’s wit to find the perfect spell to release her from where she was trapped. When she was free, though, and was brought back to Hell’s Castle, her childlike mannerisms won Sam’s favor in a heartbeat, and Sam’s status as Lucifer’s true vessel endeared him to her in turn.

Lilith taught Sam many things—how to correctly hold a knife, how to throw a ball (which much later turned into throwing sticks straight so they would land piercing the ground, which Lilith said was a necessary skill to have before beginning to throw blades), and how to tap into some of the residual Grace in his blood to move objects by will alone. This particular lesson seemed too much for Sam’s young soul to handle, and after moving a stone a foot to the right, he promptly blacked out for two whole days. Azazel forbid him from trying again until he was older, and, well, during those two days, no one heard much of Lilith except for her screams.

Sam’s range was short and his aim was clumsy, but Lilith saw improvement every day. It was a matter of muscle memory, she said, and practice. The more Sam practiced, the better he would be. And as long as he kept practicing regularly through his growth, he should be able to avoid the messy phase of miscalculation that came with rapid growth.

And he _was_ growing—slowly, on Hell time, but for an earth year’s worth of growth, Sam had grown several inches, his face starting to lose some of that puppyish roundness. He developed an attitude of stubbornness that was persistent, and when Sam put his mind to something—or _against_ something—one could be sure that whatever Sam desired would be the result.

That century, Sam’s day in the Cage was spent mostly babbling to Lucifer, sentences that only made actual sense half the time in his excitement. The archangel was pleased to see that Sam had started training, and was especially surprised to hear Sam yammer on about _Lilth_ , but only managed to get ‘ _Za got Lilth so we could play’_ out of Sam as an explanation.

Ages (and centuries) three to five were spent mostly building the basics of linguistics, learning to differentiate simple things like pronouns and verbs. Sam was wildly talented with this sort of work and advanced quickly, whereas his combat skills were still clumsy at best. His growth spurts, of course, offered little help with the matter, and despite Lilith’s consistent training, Sam’s form was still dismal.

When Sam was six, Lucifer realized that Sam’s eyesight was incredibly poor.

“What’re you doin’?” Sam drawled as Lucifer took hold of the child’s face. They sat cross-legged facing each other—they had spent their time conversing this way since the century before—and were talking about Sam’s frustrations with his combat skills when Lucifer realized that Sam’s eyes were a little hazy and unfocused.

“What is wrong with your eyes?” Lucifer demanded, grasping Sam’s chin firmly and turning his face from side to side.

“Nothing!” Sam replied, bristling at the insinuation that something was _wrong_ with him.

“No, no. There’s something going on here,” Lucifer murmured, releasing Sam and holding up his index finger. “Follow this with your eyes,” he said. Sam tried, he really did, but his reaction time was delayed, almost like he was viewing double and wasn’t sure which to look at.

“I thought so,” said the archangel, reaching forward with both hands to place them on Sam’s temples. The young boy flinched. “Stay very still, Sam, and close your eyes.”

Sam did as he was told, but his expression was strained. Slowly, carefully, Lucifer channeled his Grace directly into Sam’s skin, and the boy whimpered as it entered the echoes of his optic nerves, sizzling and sparking and repairing damage as it went. Lucifer could feel the crackle just below the image of flesh, and took special care to be as precise as possible.

A short, pained sound escaped the boy. “Hurts,” Sam said quietly.

“I know,” Lucifer replied. “Feel the pain, accept it, endure it. Unlike most pain, this will benefit both you and I with the result.”

The process was slow and arduous, but Sam bore it well after that. Once the damage was repaired, Lucifer’s Grace smoothed through the ravaged passages, soothing the tender nerves as he slowly withdrew from Sam’s system, his hand approvingly lingering on Sam’s cheek as he pulled away. “Now,” Lucifer said. “Open your eyes—slowly. Give yourself a moment to adjust.”

And Sam, impatient, eager Sam, opened his eyes just then and gasped aloud, his eyes darting everywhere, lingering over everything inside and outside the Cage, and then. Then, his eyes came back to Lucifer, and the boy openly stared as if he were seeing an angel.

Funny, that.

“What is this?” Sam asked, awestruck. “What’d you do?”

“I returned your vision to you,” Lucifer said simply. “Your eyes were damaged.”

“You fixed me?” The boy asked quietly. Lucifer nodded. “I was broken, but you fixed me.”

“ _No_ ,” Lucifer said sharply, drawing Sam’s startled, newfound gaze. His face twisted into a heavy frown and resisted the urge to grab Sam and shake him.

There was _nothing_ wrong with Sam.

“You are not _broken_ ,” the archangel snapped. “You are a work in progress. Sometimes things go wrong; this _happens_. It does not make you _broken_ , nor does it make you worthless or a failure. It simply means that there are things that must yet be improved. Do you understand?”

Sam reeled back. “I... yes.”

“Good. Never say such things again,” Lucifer commanded tetchily. “You belittle my effort put into your wellbeing by doing so.”

The boy ducked his head, the archangel’s disapproval weighing heavily on his shoulders. “Yessir.”

The angel stared at the child, so small, so naive and still so ignorant of the nuances of words, even when he delighted in learning them. Though this was a lesson well learned now... _perhaps_ he was a bit harsh.

“Now, none of that,” he sighed, softening his voice and taking care to do the same with his expression—the image of Sam that was his borrowed reflection _could_ be intimidating, especially to so young and timid a creature. “There’s no need for sadness or guilt; you are always safe with me here. Remember that.” Sam looked up at him, floppy, curly hair falling into his face and—oh, the child’s eyes were teary. What a sensitive little thing the boy was, emotional and easily affected. Lucifer sighed and opened his arms to the child like he hadn’t since the boy was three and the archangel was attempting to wean him from physical affection. Still, now, Sam’s distraught state was something of his fault, and Sam’s wellbeing was his responsibility.

Sam clambered into his lap, his small form surprisingly strong as he wrapped his arms around Lucifer’s neck and buried his face into his shoulder, letting the dampness there soak through his clothes to his borrowed skin. Truly, he would have to break Sam of this teary-eyed thing he did—but, for now, he allowed it.

Some aspects of childhood should be allowed to linger. He knew that from experience.


	5. 1:5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays to everyone who celebrates them! Sorry for being a wee bit late, but I've been setting up my brand-spanking-new laptop, and there's quite a bit to do. 
> 
> Virtual candy cane to anyone who can catch the reference in this chapter. Shame it's a bit after Christmas, or I might have found time to find a Santa suit and shout "Four for you, Glen Coco!" through the world-wide web.
> 
> This chapter is pretty long, and we finally start getting into the conflict. He might seem a little bit like super!Sam for a bit in there, but there's a good reason that will come about eventually for this, hinted a little in this chapter. From here on out, Sam will start becoming a useful, contributing member/leader of Hell-society.

Once Sam’s vision was fixed, his training intensified exponentially with his level of success. Blades began to hit home on practice targets, hand-to-hand combat training began in earnest with Lilith, and Meg decided, now that Sam was seven and sturdy and could pay attention to detail, that she would start teaching him to command hounds.

She started him with the more experienced hellhounds, the ones seasoned to her command and obedient. At first, she allowed Sam to observe; Meg’s instructions were in Latin, instructing direction and order, strategy, and attack. Once Sam could repeat her commands back at her with ease and precision, she allowed him to stand beside her and give orders.

Between his physical capabilities and his beginning command of the hounds, Sam’s existence became a whisper spread by the demons, the sharp and fearless Boy King. No longer an infant, Azazel began to introduce Sam to the politics of Hell, his council of demons that watched over the Levels: _Cain_ of the First Level, _Asmodeus_ of the Second Level, _Beelzebub_ of the Third Level, _Mammon_ of the Fourth Level, _Behemoth_ of the Fifth Level, _Belphegor_ of the Sixth Level, _Alastair_ of the Seventh Level, and _Lilith_ of the Eighth Level. Eight demons, one leader for each of the free Levels, and Azazel, who led them all in times of war (and war was approaching, but the world did not yet know it, but they would, sooner than they would ever suspect). The Ninth Level, and its ruler, was its own prisoner and their Lord, Lucifer. Many demons no longer believed in Lucifer; believed him to be a legend meant to keep them in line. Even some of the Council doubted the truth. Sam found this fact... troubling.

Azazel learned this the hard way when Sam was ten.

Sam was half-grown; a tiny, fierce thing, the softness of his childhood long depressed under a millennium of training in the ways of Hell. He sat at Azazel’s right hand as a rightful heir should, silent and watchful as the Council spoke of their woes in the Levels. It was during this meeting that Azazel gave the order to begin training for war.

“What for?” Belphegor asked. “We’ve no direct quarrel with Heaven.”

“I’d aim to change that,” Azazel replied with a half-grin. “We possess a weapon like Heaven has never seen, but we need an army.”

“What weapon?” Asmodeus asked in turn.

“Does it matter?” Behemoth thundered. “Too long have we been confined to the Pit.”

“Agreed. The Earth should belong to us and all our glory,” Beelzebub said. “When shall we strike?”

“When the weapon is ready,” Azazel answered. “We have many years yet to wait, but the spoils will be worth it, brothers, I promise.”

“Why have we not been told of this weapon?” Cain asked irritably.

“Because you _buffoons_ do not know the meaning of discretion,” Lilith snapped on Azazel’s left. “If we told you of the plan, Heaven would know by the rise of the sun.”

“I, for one, would have whatever you would share,” Mammon said.

“Agreed,” said Beelzebub and Asmodeus.

“Very well,” Azazel said simply. “We aim to raise our Lord.”

There was a long silence before anyone spoke. Incredulous glances were shared among a majority of the demons; Lilith and Alastair exchanged a long-suffering look known well to those who deal often with idiots. Azazel watched as the tension grew with a sense of both pride and apprehension. This moment was delicious, but he wondered, what would be the fallout?

“Surely, you jest,” Asmodeus said uneasily. “Azazel, our Lord...”

“Is dead,” Cain finished. “He is long dead, torn asunder from his Fall. To start a war in his name is to invite Death upon our heads.”

Azazel saw Sam’s entire body give an abortive twitch from the corner of his eye. In the history of his bringing Sam to these gatherings, the child had never once spoken a word. He wondered if this would be the day to break the pattern—if anything would push Sam to speak, it would be the mention of Lucifer.

Cain, apparently, was far from finished. “If you believe in the legends, you are more of a fool than I thought. Lucifer was strong once, yes, but a disgrace; a servant of Heaven playing leader to the filth on the Earth.”

“Mind your tongue,” Lilith snapped, her eyes flashing. “You know not of what you speak.”

Cain sneered. “Oh, so you remain loyal to the image of your knight in gilded armor? A woman’s heart is fickle and truly soft, then, to believe in such nonsense.”

Beside Azazel, Sam whispered, “Stop.” No one heard him over Cain’s treacherous talk.

“Give up your fantasy,” Cain continued, prideful and arrogant and inviting the wrath of a creature he knew not yet to fear. “Lucifer was little more than a pretty ornament that was too stupid to see his own flaws and got himself killed for it.”

More swiftly than any of the foolish animals would have guessed, Sam lunged. A loud scrape echoed from the dark, domed ceiling as his chair toppled backward, and in seconds, Cain was laid out on his back on the table made of brown and red stone, the swift and small and _furious_ Sam hovering over him, eyes lit with rage like Azazel had never seen before—glowing, even. Around him, all the demons watched, stunned.

What an interesting human.

“How _dare_ you,” Sam snarled, the knife in his hand pressed so hard to Cain’s throat that the demon leaked black smoke into the air. “You know _nothing_ of Lucifer, _nothing._ You speak ill of a thing more powerful than you can imagine. You _dare_ to smear his name with your filth, you awful beast? If you are really so stupid, lay your doubts out so that I may crucify you properly with them when _he_ walks the Earth and I can watch with satisfaction as your blackened soul crumbles to ruin!”

Cain stared up at the child with a look of shock on his face, his blackened eyes flickering desperately toward his brethren, none of which dared to move against the child. How had this thing sat in their midst unnoticed for all these years?

Then, his anger sparked. “Who are you, you pathetic human, to tell me what I may and may not do? This is _Hell_ , and I have ruled my Level for longer than you have existed!”

“Who am I?” Sam asked, his pupils shrunk to pinprick size, utterly focused with the full force of his rage on the demon he held at his mercy. “I am your _King_ , and Hell is _my_ kingdom. I am the one with a greater purpose than you can imagine, you scum! I may be a human soul, filthy as they are, but do not _ever_ think that makes me lesser than you. You are nothing, _nothing,_ but a pile of sulfur and smoke. _Learn_ to fear me, Cain; I need not lift a finger to have you torn limb from limb, and believe me, I will _delight_ in watching you scream.”

With a curl of his lips and one last press of his knife, Sam lingered and pulled away, back on his feet and _vibrating_ with fury, offering a slight bow to Azazel. “My apologies, Father, for disrupting your meeting.”

And the child, the _glorious_ child, swept from the room with a natural grace reserved for royalty.

Azazel grinned; his Sammy had been holding out on him.

“Was that truly a human?” Asmodeus asked, his fascinated eyes still lingering on the empty doorway. “The young and silent Boy King?”

Azazel gave them all a mysterious smirk, his eyes alight and cruel. “It was; and _that,_ my foolish underlings, was our weapon.”

 

* * *

 

 

A few days after the event with the Council, Sam returned to the Cage in the company of Azazel, his adoptive father leading him with a hand on his shoulder. Sam had been especially closed-off since his outburst at Cain. He barely spoke or left his quarters, and from what Azazel knew, Lilith had even put his training on hold. When he demanded to know why, she simply said that a few days’ break would not destroy his progress. Azazel hardly believed her, but Sam would not say a word either way.

It was far from an ideal situation, Azazel thought as they approached the Cage. A quiet Sam was a dangerous Sam. The closer they got, though, the more tense Sam grew—not a usual reaction. Sam had never been anything less than thrilled to see Lucifer.

This didn’t bode well for anyone.

“What’cha thinkin’ about, Sammy?” Azazel asked his charge with a forced quirk of his lips.

Sam turned his eyes up to Azazel, hazel and cold and unreadable as he replied, “Nothing.”

“Oh, come on,” the demon prodded. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you being all quiet and mysterious, Sammy-boy.”

Sam’s hackles raised and the boy’s pace quickened. He swiftly ducked his head to avoid Azazel’s gaze and offered a very unconvincing, “I’m fine, Father.”

“We _need_ to work on your lying, Sam,” Azazel said with a piercing look. “What are you not saying? What have you sworn Lilith to secrecy about?”

“I haven’t!” Sam protested immediately, spinning around and distracted from his destination. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I’m not sure I believe you, kiddo.”

“Believe what you want,” the boy snapped. “You always do.” Sam took off at a jog, and it was only when Azazel was able to watch Sam move that he suddenly saw the catch in his step and the way Sam’s arm was tucked close to his left side.

“Sam!” Azazel replied in alarm, following the boy, but even injured, Sam was quick. He crested the mass of putrid volcanic rock and began his descent down the incline toward the Cage, Azazel reaching the peak just in time to see Sam slip through the bars toward the waiting Lucifer. Even from a distance, the demon could see the frighteningly cold look on the archangel’s face as he drew Sam closer and moved the child’s hand from where it clutched protectively at his side. Lucifer’s fingers pressed there lightly, and as Azazel drew a few steps nearer, he saw that they were wet with blood.

Azazel was not a man easily frightened, but when the archangel’s eyes lifted to lock with ferocious fury with the yellow-eyed demon, he would not deny that even in the depths of Hell, he felt a chill go down his spine. Knowing that leaving now would seem like running, Azazel swallowed down his baser instincts all screaming for him to leave, and approached the Cage.

“What happened?” Lucifer hissed when Azazel was close enough, fearsome even confined as he was.

“I’d like to know that, myself,” Azazel replied, frowning deeply at his charge that lingered half-behind Lucifer.

Sam’s face was pale and his expression pinched with pain, and Azazel could see now that Sam had attempted to bandage himself under his shirt and that the gauze had soaked through. His hand applied pressure to the mysterious wound, and he dropped his gaze guiltily. When it had sunk in to Lucifer that Azazel had not _known_ that Sam was wounded, he turned to his vessel with a severe expression. Sam did not immediately respond to the obvious question lingering between them, instead keeping his eyes lowered until he could no longer ignore Lucifer’s heavy stare.

“Cain,” he said simply, without any further form of explanation.

Azazel nearly saw red. “When did this happen?”

“That night,” Sam answered, eyes still downcast. “Sorry.”

Lucifer watched without asking for further information, but the tension showing in his borrowed form betrayed his curiosity and anger in equal parts.

“You’re sorry?” Yellow-Eyes asked. “Why?”

It was difficult to tell who was more upset; the older Sam or the younger. But the boy flicked his eyes up to meet his adoptive father’s in another guilt-ridden glance. “...Lilith’s trying to find a replacement. She said something about a demon named Crowley.” Sam shrunk back under the combined weight of Azazel and Lucifer’s stares. “I _said_ sorry.”

Azazel began to laugh—quiet chuckles, and then loud guffaws, eyes wild with incredulous amusement, turning without another word and walking away. Sam watched him go, bewildered and confused, and Lucifer watched Sam.

“What was that all about?” The archangel asked tetchily, put off by being ignored during the already-so-little time he had with Sam. He grabbed Sam’s free wrist and—well, _dragged_ was an inelegant word— _forcefully guided_ him to a place deeper within the Cage, the boy hissing his displeasure and pain.

“It was nothing,” Sam deflected.

“Do _not_ presume to lie to me, Sam,” Lucifer said with a scowl.

The boy flinched when Lucifer whirled around, pushing him down so he was seated before kneeling at his side, nimble fingers pulling Sam’s light, heat-friendly shirt up just enough so he could look more closely at the wound. Unwinding the blood-sodden gauze, Lucifer’s irritated silence was deafening, his fingertips pressing to the wound that was still bleeding sluggishly—probably stressed from the long journey through the Levels; it looked raw.

“You usually heal more quickly than this, yes?” Lucifer asked, still frowning as he looked to Sam. “Why is this not already fixed?”

“It was some sort of cursed blade,” the boy answered.

“The _type_ of curse would be good to know,” the archangel complained.

“Lilith’s working on it,” Sam replied, wincing as Lucifer prodded at the gash again—long and crooked, deeper in some places than others. Acquired when Cain had first entered his room through a window—a dark silhouette against the of red and gray rock that formed his walls, backlit by the light thrown from the innumerable magma fissures that broke through the desolation of Hell—and pounced at the half-asleep Sam, he’d slashed just as Sam shot up to defend himself. It was only Sam’s dodge backward that saved him from being completely gutted, and even then, Cain had not stopped his assault. His eyes black and glittering with rage, he had thrown himself into reckless aggression. Sam was small compared to the demon, whose hulking form was both broad and tall, but Sam had speed and calculation on his side. With sharp eyes, he dove and rolled underneath the furious beast and reached for the knife he kept on the outcropping of rock beside his sleep mats. He threw; it was a long shot, really, and it was only luck that Lilith had given him a bone-handled knife inscribed with banishing runes a few hours before—but the knife stuck in the demon’s chest, who stopped short, eyes huge with fury, and erupted with agonized screams and burning light.

Lilith had found Sam in his room, Cain’s empty shell lying broken on the floor and the child attempting to bind his wound with old and worn gauze. She had agreed not to inform Azazel, stating that this was a matter well-kept between themselves, and that she would take care of the ramifications. Her eyes had flashed with something like satisfaction and approval when she tilted Cain’s head with her boot, heedless of the blood puddle that stained the leather, and said _well done_.

When he was finished inspecting the wound, Lucifer lay his hand against it, ignoring the twitch in Sam’s side from the cold brush of fingers and the accompanying pain, and closed his eyes. The archangel’s expression was blank, but here in the Cage, Sam could _feel_ his reverberating displeasure, and could feel it in his Grace when it began to seep into Sam’s body.

Sam gasped—the sensation of Lucifer’s Grace entering his system, even after all this time and all the times he had _fed_ from it, was initially like a shock, followed quickly by a warm and pleasant sensation gliding through his veins, smooth and sweet like honey. The pain was an afterthought in this healing; his side was not so sensitive as his eyes, and he’d had more practice enduring the nuances of throbbing aches and sharp stings. More troublesome was the undertone of Lucifer’s Grace—a lingering sensation that could only be characterized as prickly and drenched with astringent that went straight to Sam’s heart, previously unaffected.

He wondered if Lucifer even knew that he was _projecting_ , as he’d once called it. Sam wanted to think that he did, as Lucifer was always steady and in control, but something about this time made him doubt it.

“Do you not trust me, Sam?” Lucifer asked quietly, interrupting his reverie.

Sam blinked slowly, shocked. “What?”

The archangel’s expression twisted into something that may have resembled pain before it was swept clean, another unnamed bump under the metaphorical rug that was titled _The Mysteries of Lucifer._ “You _know_ how important you are, to Hell, to the plan,” he started, trailing off like there was something left unsaid before Lucifer picked back up where he left off. “Why are you doing this, Sam?”

“I’m not—” the boy started, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean—I...” he trailed off into an uncomfortable silence. He _did_ trust Lucifer, absolutely, and that the archangel would doubt that made his insides feel like they were freezing. What _good_ was Sam to them if he shut them out?

But, then, like a wave, anger rose and crested in Sam’s mind. Azazel, Lilith, Lucifer—they all expected his implicit trust, but didn’t trust him in return. All he’d heard was _war_ and _weapon_ and _plan_ and _important_ , but _why?_ He was old enough to know, and if he was old enough to learn long-dead languages and ways to make things _hurt_ , why did they think him not old enough to understand?

“ _You_ don’t trust _me,_ ” Sam said suddenly, fueled by his anger and drawing Lucifer’s gaze, at first taken aback before it iced over into something stoic. “See?” Sam demanded. “Right _there_ , what you just _did—_ I can see it. You ask me to open all the doors in my life to you, and then close yours on me. You all keep saying I’m important, but you won’t tell me anything.” Sam’s eyes were huge and pleading, locked with the gaze identical to his in every way. “You say you’re an angel, but you’re stuck here in Hell, and when I ask why and how, you say ‘just because’. You tell me that I’m a part of some greater plan, but whose is it and why? What do I have to do? I’m—I’m just working really hard and I don’t even know why. I’m doing everything I can, _everything_ , and I’m _trying_ , and I don’t understand, but I _know_ that I could if you’d let me.”

By the time the anger had swept out of Sam, his breathing kept catching erratically and his eyes were burning. He didn’t understand what was happening! Rubbing at his face, his hand came away wet with water, and when he licked his lips, they tasted like salt. Fear and defeat were like gravity, pulling Sam inward until he was curled together, legs to chest and face to knees. Never before had he felt so confused or shameful for his behavior.

“Sam,” Lucifer said, but the boy didn’t respond, too caught up in his internal dilemma. “ _Sam_ ,” he tried again, but went unanswered.

With a frustrated, exasperated breath, Lucifer reached for his vessel and allowed his arm to rest around the boy’s shoulders, which shook with every stilted breath. He was undeniably awkward beside this child, this _human_ , who was so sensitive and felt so much and was now old enough to remember whatever kindness Lucifer might show him. It was a strange and uncomfortable situation; Sam, who needed to be strong and solid and _was_ so, crying messily before his eyes and seeming to be even more upset _because_ he was crying. If Sam was not so very important (and also so very special and good and if he were not all the things that were _right_ with this wretched world), Lucifer might have allowed him to stew in his mess of feeling, or even ended the misery _for_ him.

But this _was_ Sam, and Sam was _his._ There was something fundamentally wrong about watching Sam deteriorate in such a way without attempting to comfort him. Somehow. Still, for all Lucifer’s rigid posture and distinctly uncomfortable aura, the physical contact _did_ seem to help the boy, who leaned into the archangel’s side with a strangled sob.

It was a long while before Sam calmed down enough to talk, as he refused to attempt forcing words through his tears. The entire crying experience was difficult enough—he’d never cried like that, not from the heart or the soul or wherever traitorous feelings came from. Sure, he’d probably wailed as an infant, and he remembered the harshness of Lucifer’s words that one time, and how the first thing he had seen with his newly-repaired and desperately sore eyes was the disappointed and frustrated look on the archangel’s face. He remembered warmth and comfort offered and taken, but the details were blurry.

But, this; crying—sobbing, really. This was not an experience that Sam wanted to repeat. He was sure his face looked wretched.

“Sam,” Lucifer said quietly.

“What?” The boy croaked.

“Look at me. Please,” he added as an afterthought, waiting until Sam lifted his head enough to meet Lucifer’s eyes. “Never doubt that I find you trustworthy.” When the boy gave him a derisive look, Lucifer turned the same look right back at him. “Truly, Sam. If you only believe one thing I say today, believe that I trust you more absolutely than I’ve trusted anyone or _anything_ in a very long time.”

“Then why won’t you answer my questions?” Sam asked, voice soft and despondent. “I want to help. I _can_ help.”

“I know you can. You’re the only one who can,” the archangel admitted, attention fixed on Sam. “The others obey me, but for what reason? Fear; ambition? Those things are not _trust_. But _you_ , Sam; you’re more than that, more than anything they can offer me. Even Azazel, even Lilith—you are worth infinitely more.”

“But _why_?” The child asked. “Why me?”

“Because, Sam, you are my true vessel.” At the boy’s questioning look, Lucifer carried on. “Here in the Cage, here in _Hell_ , you are all only but souls. You appear humanoid because that’s all your human soul can process and project itself as. You sleep, you feed, you _bleed_ because your soul knows instinctively that those are things you need to do. The demons appear human because they prefer the shape—it’s easier to mold and easier to break. But demons are only damned and corrupted human souls, Sam,” Lucifer explained.

“Any demon you know today was once a human soul, like you. And here, you are only a soul—and don’t take that to mean that souls aren’t immensely powerful, because they _are—_ but somewhere up on the surface of the Earth, you have a human body made of true flesh and blood, where your soul would make its home if it were there. And your body can hold your soul, Sam, but it’s not the only thing it can hold—bodies can be taken over by other things. This is how demons walk the Earth; in the bodies of human beings. For them, the body need not even be alive for them to take it over.”

Sam shivered in disgust at the notion. Lucifer silently echoed the sentiment. “But demons are not the only creatures capable of taking over a human body. There are other things, _much_ more powerful things, that possess the ability, not only to take control of a body, but to share one.” He continued to watch Sam, who only looked equally confused and fascinated. “Angels, Sam,” he said simply, startling the child out of his reverie.

“Like you?” Sam asked uncertainly, a strange expression crossing his face.

“Yes, like me,” Lucifer agreed. “Most angels are, admittedly, strong, but there are other angels that are exponentially more immense. There’s only a few, but they are fearsome. They’re called archangels.”

“ _Arch_ ,” Sam said. “ _Archangel—_ chief angel. Greek?”

“Correct,” Lucifer affirmed, the corner of his borrowed mouth twitching upward. “You’re getting better.”

“I practice,” he replied. “You were saying?”

“Pushy,” Lucifer chided, drawing a smile from Sam. “Yes, I was. Now, angels can take vessels—that is, they can borrow the body of a human, but only live humans, and only with that human’s consent. It’s difficult for an angel to find a compatible human; they must be descended from certain Holy bloodlines, and then they must also agree. For archangels, it’s considerably harder to find a vessel. Most human bodies are not meant to hold that kind of power. An archangel can find a compatible vessel, but their bodies will deteriorate under the strain, and eventually that human will die.”

Sam stared at him with wide eyes, his smile suddenly gone. “But... you said _I_ was your vessel—does that mean—?”

“Allow me to continue, and I will answer your questions,” Lucifer said. Sam nodded. “You _are_ my vessel, Sam, but you’re different from the others, you’re not _like_ the others; you’re special. So much more special than you can imagine. In all of time, an archangel will only have one _true_ vessel—a human born with the incredible capability to contain an archangel without harm. It’s amazingly, molecularly specific, but it comes down to this—one human, one archangel, a perfect fit. That human will _only_ be compatible as a vessel to that archangel. And for me, Sam, that human is you.”

Sam, for once, was entirely speechless.

“It’s still risky,” Lucifer continued quietly, giving the boy a moment for his (admittedly incredible) mind to catch up. “Without proper fortification, the human _can_ be damaged. Certain things possess enough power to reinforce the human body; the blood of a demon is one, but not ideal.” Sam made a horrified face. “Yes, disgustingly crude, and not nearly as elegant as other options. I had thought, at one time, that demon blood may have held the answer if the body in question was young enough. I learned that the results were good, but the side effects...” Lucifer grimaced at the thought of that particular world, glimpsed through the bars over and over again. If he were a human, he may have felt sick simply thinking about it.

“And the other options?” Sam asked, his huge, pleading eyes turned up to the archangel, searching for a less deplorable alternative.

“Require more patience and care; care like an angel has never taken in preparing a human vessel, until now.” Lucifer allowed the slow swell of pride to linger for a while before he swept it away. “Grace,” he answered. “An angel’s Grace is the power that sustains them—like a human’s soul, but so much more vast. It’s _pure creation._ ”

“And it helps?”

“More than I could have hoped. The day your soul arrived in Hell, I saw it faltering—in order to sustain you and your growth, I fed you small portions of my Grace.”

“The blood,” Sam exclaimed, realizing. “The blood you’ve been feeding me—”

“And that you’re overdue for,” Lucifer reminded him, deeming Sam sufficiently recovered and removing his arm from around the child. Biting into the inner swell of his hand, he offered it to Sam.

Sam looked less certain now than he ever had. “Is it really okay?”

“If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have been doing so for the past millennium.” Lucifer watched with satisfaction as Sam drank, ignoring the unpleasant burn in favor of observing the glow of Sam’s soul radiate with the perfect harmony it was experiencing. “It stores in your soul, nourishes it, but has also been building up a reserve. When your soul returns to your body, the excess Grace will strengthen your cells and make you safe to me, and me to you—but I’m running the risk of my Grace overpowering your soul if I keep giving you so much. I’ll have to stop sooner than later, I think.”

Several minutes passed, Sam finally tapering off until he no longer felt such a strong urge to feed, and curiously looked at his own side, which was flawlessly smooth. “Is that why I heal faster?”

“I believe so, yes, but there’s also the nonphysical to consider. You can feel pain here; torture, even, as most souls do. But your body cannot be physically damaged, only your soul. It’s a representation of the psychological and spiritual state, so the true question would be in the significance of the metaphysical.”

Sam stared, uncomprehending, at the archangel. Lucifer decided to let it go.

“Out of curiosity,” he asked instead, “why did Cain attack you?”

The multitude of emotions that betrayed themselves through Sam’s expression could not all be named, but the strongest looked like uncertainty. Sam hesitated. “He, uh. Father—Azazel—gave the order to start training an army, and they wanted to know why; they told the Council that the short version was that they planned to raise you.” Phantom anger pulled Sam away from the present. “Cain said awful things, traitorous things, and I—I couldn’t let him.” Sam fidgeted under Lucifer’s steady gaze. “I _may_ have attacked him. And I may have threatened him with death. But he _deserved_ it, you don’t know the things he _said_ about you! And I couldn’t stop myself; it just, it felt like everything was burning, and if I didn’t say something, it would set me on fire. I don’t even remember most of what I said.”

“You defended me?” Lucifer asked, curious.

“I _had_ to,” Sam said, then revised himself. “I _wanted_ to, but, I just couldn’t let him talk about you like that. And you _are_ real; I _know_ you’re real, and none of the rest do.”

“You’ll show them, Sam, _we’ll_ show them someday, if you say ‘yes’ and let me in when the time comes. We’ll be tremendous.”

And Sam, the curious and undefinable child that he was, gave Lucifer a wounded look like the archangel had said something unbelievably hurtful. “What do you mean, _if_ I say ‘yes’?” Sam asked. “Of _course_ I’ll say yes. What you’re doing, what you’ve _done_ for me—if I could just say it now, I would,” the boy said with quiet assurance. “But I don’t think that would work, or we’d have done that already, right?”

“Correct,” Lucifer affirmed, staring at the boy. “In fact, you _need_ to know, need to be ready. From now on, here, we’ll be training skills during our days left together. I’ll teach you to fight as an angel would; you’ll need to know how to properly stand against them and to use their weaknesses to your advantage. And it won’t be easy,” he warned. “We don’t have the time or privilege of going easy on each other, not with our window of opportunity starting to draw closer. Whatever wounds you’ve acquired from practical sparring, I can guarantee that what you’ll get from me will be worse. It’ll hurt, and it’ll be more difficult than you can imagine, but it has to be done if you have any hope of breaking the Seals.”

“What are Seals?” Sam asked curiously, seemingly not at all worried about the promise of pain and aggression, the strange thing.

With a decided nod, Lucifer moved to sit across from the boy and began to explain.

 

 

 


	6. 1:6

Years passed, and Sam’s training was once again stepped up a notch. Sam picked up several new teachers, including a demon named Ruby, a former protegé of Lilith’s. After age ten, Sam’s work in Enochian and Latin transitioned into spellwork—demonic curses, angel banishment, protective warding, which built on his enthusiasm for languages. Ruby assisted him in learning the composition of hex bags and strong summoning rituals, the types used by witches back when magic was still feared by humans, and rightfully so. Ruby was a relatively young demon compared to the others like Azazel, Lilith, and Meg, and was not quite as controlled in her actions (perhaps controlled wasn’t the best word, but _calculated_ ), but was powerful in her own right because of her natural manipulative charm. Taking the form of a beautiful blonde girl, she took her amusement in trying to tempt Sam with her wiles, especially as Sam grew into a young teen. Sam liked her well enough and considered her something of a friend, despite his distaste for her relatively mild seductions.

Another teacher that Sam picked up was Cain’s replacement; the demon Crowley, who was a coward at heart, buried under the facade of a sharp and jolly Scotsman. Crowley’s manipulations made Ruby look like a child begging for sweets, his quick mind and strong sense of self-preservation contributing to the escape acts and psychological interrogation he taught in turn to Sam. He taught Sam that the best offense was, indeed, a good defense, but that a good defense could not exist without the inverse.

When Sam was thirteen, during his day in the Cage, he lost his head a little bit. Frustrated from his new and unusual hormones, his temper through the roof, he _knew_ that Lucifer was going easy on him in their sparring. It didn’t seem to matter to Sam that not only was Lucifer an _archangel_ , but that he also had timeless experience with war and battle; and for all Sam’s practical education, Sam was limited to the strength of a thirteen-year-old.

“Stop going _easy_ on me!” Sam shouted, the angel blade gripped tightly in his hand; he could only wield it in the Cage, in the presence of Lucifer, but he preferred it already over his other weapons and even his demon-killing knife. Sam’s hair was stuck to his face with sweat, hazel eyes wild with adrenaline and frustration.

“I am not,” Lucifer replied calmly, watching Sam’s anger with stoic indifference. “We are sparring at your current level, Sam.”

“You’re _babying_ me,” the young teen snarled. “ _Stop._ Don’t waste my time!”

“What you’re asking for is insanity, Sam.”

“I’m not _asking_ , I’m _telling_ you to do it!”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Fuck you!”

Lucifer slammed Sam against the bars of the Cage in an instant, forearm pressed tightly to Sam’s windpipe, his blade held in his other hand, resting idly over Sam’s heart, no pressure there applied. “You try my patience, Samuel,” Lucifer said quietly, his face calm but his eyes wild. “I am _not_ Azazel, and it is _not_ my job to coddle you as he does. It _is_ my job to make you prepared, because if you’ve not forgotten, _you are mine_. As you like so much to insist, you are no longer a child, so _stop_ acting as such; you were better behaved than this when you were six years old and couldn’t even _see_ the truth in front of you.”

Sam’s lip curled, baring his teeth; Lucifer returned the expression with much more ferocity. “You _child_ ,” he said quietly. “Don’t direct your anger at me; it’s misplaced. Direct it at your circumstance, at _our_ circumstance, and grow strong from it. If you truly wish for me to treat you like an adult, _act_ like one.”

The tension between them was thick with Sam’s gasping breaths, the anger starting to melt from his body in the face of Lucifer’s derision. “Okay,” Sam wheezed. “Okay, I’m sorry. _Okay_.”

Lucifer removed his arm from Sam’s throat, but kept him pressed to the bars with a firm palm to the center of his chest, letting his blade fall to his side. “I’m not nearly as kind as you think me to be, Sam, and my temper is quick, even with you. You’re getting older, more fierce with your emotions, but you’re allowing them to reign uncontrolled. It’s not something I can allow; if ever you were captured and your feelings were as wild as they are now, you would put yourself in danger. I regret it, but you’ll need to learn to control that.”

“How?” Sam asked.

“You will train with Alastair, and when he thinks you are ready, go to Crowley; tell him it’s time to _raise his game_ , as he would say. The two will make you strong and controlled. Once you know restraint, you’ll be lethal. Then we can move on.”

“Alastair, Master of the Seventh Ring?” Sam asked, his face paling slightly. He _knew_ what Alastair did; in the Seventh Ring, the most vile of souls went to him to be tortured for eternity. Usually, he barely needed a Hell-decade to break them. Most, within twenty years, had become demons, themselves.

Lucifer was giving the order for Sam to be tortured.

Sam ducked under Lucifer’s arm, skittering away from the archangel, who watched him with impassivity. Not for the first time, Sam wondered whose face it was that Lucifer borrowed, but whenever he had asked, Lucifer had only ever told him _with time, you’ll know_. What kind of a person could look so stone-faced when ordering the torture of someone they knew and claimed to look out for? Was the other human’s soul sharing with Lucifer now, waiting for Sam to be ready? Was it only an illusion? And if so, whose illusion was it?

“You want me tortured,” Sam said quietly, his hands starting to shake as he dropped his borrowed blade. “I can—I’ll stop being bad, I promise. I can fix this, _please._ ” Centuries of memories welled up in the forefront of his mind, watching the human souls scream and beg for mercy, reaching out to Sam instinctively as a fellow human soul—and then the lesser demons or Alastair himself would remove their hands, peel back their skin, gouge out their eyes for _daring_ to look at him, their Boy-King. “ _Please_ ,” Sam whispered in terror, feeling his heart throb in his chest and hearing it in his ears. “Don’t do this. I’ve never—you don’t know it, but I’ve never asked for anything. _Please_ , Lucifer.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Lucifer replied, but the lack of emotion in his voice didn’t make him sound very sorry at all. “It will—and _must—_ be done.”

Sam shivered spasmodically, eyes wide with betrayal and terror, but he didn’t try to beg again, despite the crushing fear in every line of his body. He shook his head in denial, once and again, and then ran, slipping out through the bars long before his allowed time was over and disappearing over the sharp cliffs that surrounded the Cage.

Lucifer said nothing, but watched him as he went—Sam _had_ to understand, and one day he would. As a vessel, Sam was already in danger; as _his_ vessel, that danger increased exponentially. That combined with Sam’s intimate knowledge of Hell and its workings, as well as his knowledge of Lucifer, left him more vulnerable than any creature that had ever lived. Sam was well-trained in combat already; the best of any human. He had seen to that. Sam was faster and smarter and more educated, thirteen Earth-years worth of growth stretched into over 1500 Hell-years already. Fifteen-hundred years of specialized training, practice, and learning of practical knowledge of spells, of Hell and its politics and how best to rule it all.

Sam was the first of his kind and would remain the _only._

But Sam could not remain vulnerable, and for all his knowledge of techniques and of pain earned in the fury of battle, the pain of pure torture was very different. There was no adrenaline to temper the agony, and there was no level of superior skill that would make him immune to that damage. Once he was in a position where he could be interrogated and tortured, he _had_ to learn what to do. Had to learn how to control that pain, to channel it, and to get any information he could out of his interrogators in turn. When Sam returned to the surface, where he could be captured, he would be _human_.

It _had_ to be done, as much as Lucifer’s every instinct screamed to protect Sam, to keep him away from the filthy creatures of Lucifer’s own design, to keep Sam to himself. Lucifer could stomach handing Sam over to Azazel, who was barely a demon at all, and to Meg, who was still less loathsome than the others. Lilith was still the most human of all his creatures, despite her taste for destruction, borne of the wrongs done against her by God directly when she was still purely human. But, Alastair and Crowley, and the demon Ruby—Crowley was a coward and his only redeeming qualities were his wit and creativity for escape, which he would give to Sam. If demons were filth and darkness, Alastair was the Pit itself; disgustingly vile, finding true pleasure in the screams of his victims, and delighting in corrupting the pure. He would exalt in having Sam in his bloody, twisted hands. And Ruby—Lucifer _knew_ of her intentions, of her wishes for Sam, and would rend her for them if he were not stuck in the Cage. Her knowledge of magic was useful, true, but never enough to make up for the grubby little paw prints she longed to leave on Sam. Her sickly-sweet and poisonous aura was something that Lucifer wished to rip from Sam one layer at a time. Lucifer wondered if Sam _knew_ what Ruby would do to him if he could; wondered if he knew that she wished Sam under her control for the pleasure of it, but also to whisper without consequence into his Boy-King’s ear, and to gain from his warped favor.

Lucifer would not allow it. He would allow no distractions for Sam.

 

* * *

 

The next year when Sam came to the Cage, he didn’t smile once. Lucifer pitied the boy—when childhood ended, it was always with pain.

 

* * *

 

Alastair aimed to break him, Sam knew; as soon as Alastair knew that he’d have possession of Sam, if only for a time, the dark glee had shown on his face, chilling the young Sam down to his core. Azazel had been shocked that Lucifer had made the O.K for Sam to feel the demon’s blades. When he asked why, Sam had not answered. Sam breathed not a word of Lucifer at all that century. In fact, the majority of all he heard from Sam that century were his screams.

And eventually, even those tapered off, too; and Azazel worried that maybe Sam _was_ broken, if Lucifer had miscalculated, somehow—until Crowley had warned him of Sam’s first trial, to be bound and tortured, to gather as much information as he could, and then escape the complex they would hold him in.

Sam did more than escape; he _destroyed_ almost everyone and everything on the inside.

He’d wandered into Hell’s Castle, the great, red-stone building, covered in red himself, and dirt and smoke and sulfur, walked by everyone that spoke to him without a word, and straight to the room with the bathing pit dug into the ground, filled with murky, near-boiling water. It wasn’t until Sam was clean and his many wounds truly revealed, and then bound, that he wandered into Azazel’s conference room during a meeting of the Council and sat down in his rightful seat, his white shirt padded underneath from the gauze near the buttons on the shoulder, the embroidery on the chest, the ties to hold it all together near Sam’s hips. Sam’s face was mottled with purple and blue, scabbed-over cuts on his cheeks, a deep split in his lip that was dripping sluggishly; he’d sat tenderly, his movements slow and halting. When the Council had gone silent, staring at him, Sam had simply made eye contact with Alastair, who seemed shocked, and said, “I’m used to sturdier Cages.”

 

 

 


	7. 1:7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse my Latin, as I am not fluent and relied mostly on the internet lexicons. "I tried and therefore no one should criticize me."

It was during this century that one of Meg’s hounds had a litter— _hellpups_ , Sam had called them wryly, and Meg refrained from informing him that the multitude of demons called Sam _hellchild_. Then, in a turn that shocked the Boy King, Meg turned over custody of the litter to him.

“What am I going to do with these, Meg?” Sam complained from where he was seated on the hot rock, with tiny, white-skinned and still-blind creatures doing their best to crawl into his lap. Their ears were still folded over, tiny milk teeth poking out from under gray-pink gums, making tiny yelps in a demand for attention. They were hardly fearsome now, but would become so in time; Meg’s hounds were immense and pale, their eyes red with long, slitted pupils, their noses and tongues gray. They were short-furred to match the climate, with huge paws and long tails. Meg said that they compared to some type of Earth-beast called a _pit bull,_ and were more than likely the ancestors to some of their canines.

Meg shrugged at Sam’s complaint, rolling her eyes. “Train them? I thought you would want a distraction.”

“You thought wrong,” Sam replied with a frown. “Most of my time will be spent with Alastair and Crowley; you know that. I don’t have time to train a pack.”

“They won’t begrudge you this,” Meg said in reply with one fine, raised brow. “You’re doing work for Hell; it’s not like raising a pack is easy or recreational. You’ll need to run with them, be one of them, so they respect you. And if they complain, tell them that I said that this will be a useful skill topside—we’ll need hounds, and a second Houndmaster will be a boon. _Make_ time for this, Sam.”

And Sam might have believed her Hell-duty-spiel if the look on her face hadn’t been one of worry, and, when he agreed, one of relief.

“You owe me,” Sam warned. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here. You’re just lazy; pawning your mutts off onto me.”

“Whatever you say, Samuel,” Meg agreed, masking her emotions. He’d given her an out—they both knew what was really going on here.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, Sam having a pack turned out to be a good idea. When speaking was too much for him to handle, when he could no longer take the pain, he would take a day or several for intensive training with the litter. Five hellpups—and even one would have been more than enough for most. Though they grew slower than Earth-beasts (it took a quarter-century for them to be fully grown), they were trainable as soon as their eyes and ears were open. Sam had them obeying commands by the end of the first decade; thinking creatively by the second. It was slow progress, but it _was_ his first litter.

He named them well—the oldest, a broad female, was called Hecate; the second-born male, enormous, was named Atlas; the third-born male was Eurus; the fourth pup, a female, was named Ker; the last, a smallish thing with a unparalleled sense for mischief, was Zelus. Meg had laughed at the thought of naming his pups after ancient Greek deities, but had to concede that the personalities fit the titles. As for Sam, he just preferred Greek; but it made his time easier to name them as such, since commands were given in Latin.

“Atlas, _reveni_. Ker, _grassare_! Hecate, Eurus, Zelus; _circumvenite!_ ” Atlas fell back in time for Ker to surge toward a soul, weakened, attempting to escape the racks. Ker’s teeth sank into the shrieking thing, with Hecate, Eurus, and Zelus creating a perimeter. Sam smirked victoriously; his pups were smart. Ker thrashed, rending the soul, but not quite killing it. “Ker, _leta_.”

With a crunch, the soul’s spine snapped under Ker’s teeth.

“Good girl,” Sam praised, and the hound wagged her tail. “Go ahead; bring it back where it belongs.” With the temporarily incapacitated soul in her jaws, Ker trotted off toward the racks, dragging it behind her. The soul would be strung up again, its torture resumed.

Really, Crowley ought to stop letting souls out just to test Sam’s pack.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam’s soul was becoming more beaten and broken by the year. Strong as he was at heart, Sam was not a creature that naturally pushed back; not from his own people. In the face of opposition, he would destroy his rivals, but when his tormentors were his own forces, he began to withdraw.

He became excellent at withstanding torture. Not a shout or a scream, not a _word_ would come out of Sam aside from quiet taunts to enrage his attackers and make them sloppy. A master or extraction, Sam was talented at playing defeated in order to draw information out of the assailants. Unfortunately, his defeatist tendencies started to carry over into real life; his head hung low, shying way from the fatherly gestures Azazel would offer; a hand on the shoulder, a ruffle of Sam’s floppy hair, a solid pat on the back. All these attempts now only caused Sam to flinch, ducking under open arms in a way that was so distinctly _un-Sam_ that it made lesser demons edgy, shuffling whenever the Boy King entered a room with eyes blank and face stony.

That year in the Cage, Sam was fifteen, and sat quietly, speaking only when spoken to, and hardly looking at Lucifer at all.

“You are acting immature,” Lucifer said sourly after nearly an hour of taunting Sam and getting no response or twist in his face. “You are not dealing with your emotions. Have you learned _nothing_ , Sam?”

“I’ve learned,” Sam replied, flat. “I’ve learned that wasting my energy doesn’t hurt anyone but myself. I’ve learned that killing is not only for when threatened. I’ve learned how to have my body torn apart, cell by cell, sinew by sinew, ligament by ligament. I’ve learned what it feels like to have it put back together again, just so Alastair could restart taking me apart. I’ve learned what it feels like to tear open human flesh, to watch as my dogs do the same, then bring them right back to the racks. I’ve learned what it feels like to trust someone, and then to doubt that trust.” Sam looked at the archangel, eyes mistrustful and betrayed, but his voice stayed level. “I suddenly understand what it is to be _revolted_ by a touch that was once comforting. I know what it’s like to feel terrified of everyone, including my own family. You want to tell me that I’m not dealing with my emotions? Maybe it’s true. But who, out of the two of us, has better learned to deal? I am quiet; I speak when spoken to, because that’s what’s _expected_ of me, nowadays. But you; you lash out angrily for the damage you _ordered_. Don’t take this out on me, Lucifer. This was your idea. It isn’t my fault that it simply worked too well.”

The archangel stared at the boy, who lowered his head and stared at his hands. The silence stretched between them uncomfortably, and Sam’s body gave small, uneasy twitches every so often as Lucifer towered over him.

“You can hurt me,” Sam said quietly. “I wouldn’t blame you. When you ordered this on me, I wanted to hurt you, too.”

“Where did your fire go, Sam?” Lucifer asked with a scowl. “This self-pity is less than desirable. You don’t wear it well.”

“I apologize for the shortcomings that have been raised in me,” the teen replied sharply, his face twisting at last. “Believe it or not, none of my life has been _mine._ You don’t like it that there’s no one to blame but yourself for my outcome. Why don’t _you_ grow up?”

They glowered at each other, Boy King and True King, archangel and vessel, two halves of a substantial whole. The tension between them was immense, as it had been since Sam was old enough to feel the stretch of space from pole to pole. It wasn’t fair, Sam thought, that he was made to suffer for Lucifer’s pleasures. In the end, it wouldn’t be _Lucifer_ to disappear under the deafening force of an archangel’s Grace. It wouldn’t be _his_ body to be worn like clothes and easily discarded.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Sam asked suddenly, bitterly. “That of all the things you sought to teach me, free will was never one of them. Isn’t that what you prided yourself upon? And if you wanted to make me in your image, I think you left one crucial ingredient out.”

Lucifer’s fists clenched, but he said nothing. Sam wondered if he was searching for the right words, or if the words had already left him. Then, finally, he grit out, “Then what will you do, Sam? Turn against me?”

“No,” Sam answered, giving Lucifer an indescribable look of frustration, derision, and deep sadness. The anger seemed to bleed from Lucifer’s borrowed image of a body, one that Sam was starting to suspect was more familiar than he would ever come to know. “I train more, I get better, I break the Seals, I say ‘yes’. Then it’s up to you to do what you will.”

Lucifer’s eyes were piercing, sharply discerning the defeat in the lines of Sam’s form. “To you, that’s the end, isn’t it?”

“Is it not?” Sam slumped a little, resting his head back against the void of white. “You take my body, that’s it. You have your vessel, time for the Apocalypse.”

“If you think that’s all, you’re mistaken,” Lucifer snapped.

“Am I?” Sam said in return. “The body you’re wearing—I’ve been wondering for a while. It’s me, isn’t it? What I’ll look like when you have me. I don’t often see my own reflection, but I think I’m probably right.”

The archangel’s borrowed mouth twitched, but toward a smirk or a scowl, Sam couldn’t be sure. Knowing that it was _him_ made the expressions look all the more alien.

“Why do you need me here?” The boy asked suddenly, looking up through too-long hair to meet Lucifer’s eyes— _his_ eyes. “Why do you keep asking for me to come back? Why not give Azazel what instructions he needs to train me and leave me to where I am? What’s the reason for any of this?”

“Do you not believe that I _want_ you here, Sam?” Lucifer’s fingers twitched, and he sank into a crouch near Sam, movements more fluid and graceful than Sam could ever hope to master. “That I want to see you, your progress? That I care about your wellbeing?”

“Do you?” Sam asked bitterly.

“Of course,” Lucifer snapped. “Azazel raises you, Sam, but you are not _his._ Don’t you understand?”

Sam closed his eyes in defeat so he wouldn’t have to look at Lucifer anymore. “Apparently not,” he said quietly. “But _understanding_ isn’t my job. I know my place.”

Sam flinched harshly when he felt a hand close around his jaw, pupils constricting as his eyes flew open, his chest heaving in a desperate gasp for air. _This_ , proximity, it was too much. He didn’t want it. He just wanted to be left alone.

Lucifer stared at Sam like he’d never seen him before. “You’re scared,” he said, watching as Sam swallowed compulsively. “You are. You’re _scared_ , of me, of everything. You’re understanding the horrifying reality that you have no control over your life, that the joy you once knew only existed as long as you followed orders. You’re seeing your lack of identity for the first time; is that it?” Sam tried to pull his face away, but Lucifer wouldn’t let him. “Let me see if this about covers it; you’re terrified of disappearing when you say ‘yes’ to me.”

Sam nodded haltingly.

Lucifer’s grip slackened, but he did not release Sam quite yet. “You have no reason to fear me, Sam.” Sam’s expression twisted. “Sam, the torture you endured was _necessary_. You needed to _know_. If you were ever captured by Heaven, they would hold nothing back and torture you exactly as Alastair did; tearing you apart over and over again, _killing_ you, and then bringing you back. They would bring their most talented interrogators against you, Sam. _Think_ : what would it be like if the first pain like that you had ever experienced was with the goal of gaining information? If they had promised mercy in exchange for our plans? You’re only _human_ , Sam; you would give in.”

“You _think_ I would give in,” Sam said quietly. “But I _never_ would.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Of course I do,” Sam said, lowering his eyes. “I would never betray my family, and I would never betray you.”

“I once thought like you did,” Lucifer replied. “That I would always stand by my family because I loved them.” Sam jolted. “Yes, that’s right. My _family_. I was not always here in Hell, Sam. I was an angel, like the rest; _better_ than the rest. Brave, loyal. I thought that even if we disagreed, we would stand together. I was wrong. Relying totally on family will let you down—maybe not now, maybe not even _soon_. But, one way or another, they will leave you alone. Death, the turning of allegiances; it will happen. Even _you_ could turn, Sam.”

“I wouldn’t,” the boy said emphatically.

“Believe it or not, Sam, I _know_ you,” Lucifer snapped. “Better than you know yourself. Before you came to me, I watched you live and die a thousand ways, a thousand other worlds where I could not reach you, could not help you, and the _one_ where I could, and you turned me away.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open in shock, and he struggled for words, but could not find them.

“That’s right,” Lucifer sneered. “A world where you let me out _accidentally_ , a world where I went to you and tried to explain, and you refused me, again and again. A world where you were well-trained and near-perfect, so _smart_ , Sam, and I thought you would be able to see the truth, but you had been _blinded_. Where you fell deaf to me because of traitorous words whispered in your ears from all sides. And I realized, once I saw it, that no matter what I did, the world would twist you away from me.” Lucifer stared at Sam, his hand finally lowering from Sam’s jaw. “You let me in, Sam; eventually, you did. It was perfect, and I tried so hard to fix all the wrongs that had been done to you, but you were so unhappy. In the end, you threw us back in here; to the Cage, but there was no getting out. My brother, Michael, was dragged down with us, and his vessel; one of your brothers. And I had to watch as you tortured yourself with all your pain and self-loathing, twisted your own reality until it subsidized my image in your place. When you were taken from the Pit, Sam, you were so very broken, and you were convinced that it was _me_ who had torn you apart. You’d forgotten that I promised to never hurt you, so desperate in your hurt to find someone to blame. And then you were gone, out of my reach.”

Lucifer sat finally, looking away from Sam, his focus lost in the void of white.

Sam inched a little closer, feeling sick. He—some _version_ of him—had _rejected_ Lucifer? Had rejected the archangel that had given him everything? Had he—the _other_ Sam—been raised on Earth, with the brothers Lucifer mentioned? Had he had parents, like Sam had Azazel? How did he learn to fight? Sam wanted to know more, but knew better than to ask about the creature (because it was _not_ him, could _not_ be him) that had upset Sam’s archangel.

Simultaneously, the thought of this person made Sam feel disgusted.

Sam would _never_ , _ever_ abandon his family. No matter what Lucifer said, Sam wouldn’t, and they wouldn’t leave him. And Sam wouldn’t leave Lucifer, either.

“I’m not him,” Sam said firmly. “He doesn’t deserve my name.”

The archangel turned, raising a brow at the vehemence in Sam’s voice. “You sound sure.”

“I _am_ sure,” he replied. “I—just, look, okay? I’m not _that_ Sam. I won’t ever be him. A family on Earth— _humans_ ,” Sam spat. “I don’t want them. What I want is my father and Meg, Lilith and Crowley and even maybe Alastair and Ruby. I want what I have. That’s what I want, and that’s why I’m scared to lose it.”

“You won’t be drowned out, Sam,” Lucifer said. “As fearful as you are of being lost and forgotten, you won’t be. You’ll just be whole— _we’ll_ be whole. Your regard for your family will remain, as will your soul and your mind; otherwise, what would be the use in training you so well? I want you smart, _sharp_ , because it will make the both of us better when the time comes. Do you understand?”

Sam nodded, and then hesitated. “I just...”

“Just _what_ , Sam?”

The teen fidgeted, pulling his gaze away from the archangel, a fleeting thought making his face flush and his hands clench. “...just nothing. Never mind. It’s irrelevant.”

Lucifer nodded, despite knowing that Sam was lying. For now, he would let it go.

 

 

 


	8. 1:8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sixteen isn't so sweet when you're the Boy King of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the amazing response I've gotten so far and for every single kudos and comment! Seriously, you guys make my day, I always get so excited to see that you all like it. <3

Everything changed at sixteen. Sam started talking again, and stopped avoiding affection quite so much. He still formally called Azazel _Father_ , as was proper, but with a huge growth spurt and his voice dropping, he stopped seeming so boyish and became more of a man. Demons bowed their heads as he passed, and Sam’s childish white tunics—simple, clean, functional; lightweight for the heat, practical for movement—started to become more fitting for a person of his status. With his coming-of-age, Sam had earned the true right to participate with, rather than just observing, the Council.

And, to Sam’s great frustration, the vast majority of Hell began to call him _my Lord_ or _my King_.

“I’m just Sam,” he’d protested when Meg gave him a wide grin. “I’m the same as I was.”

“You’re considerably taller,” Meg had argued gleefully. “May all your enemies fall down in fear and awe, my King.”

“ _Stop_ it, Meg,” Sam whined in a decidedly undignified manner.

“That’s not very noble of you, my Lord,” Meg teased in return. “Truly, where is your dignity and poise? What would Father say?”

“He would say, _‘why aren’t you both looking after the new litter?’_ ” Azazel cut in as he swept up onto the plateau where Meg and Sam were training—or, more accurately, taking half-hearted swipes at each other with swords.

“Ker can look after her pups,” Sam replied simply, taking another slow swing at Meg, who twirled out of the way with laughable ease. Sam gave her a baleful look.

“You’re not even _trying_ ,” the demon complained to her student-brother.

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “I would tear you apart.”

“Prove it, Boy-King. Show me the skills our father boasts of, the ones you only show to Our Lord.” Meg feinted to his left, then ducked to his right, making a jab for his side that Sam deflected while barely looking her way. Meg sighed in frustration. “I want to _see_ , Sam.”

“ _No_ , Meg,” Sam replied, taking a quick side-step to avoid her rebound swing. “It wouldn’t be fair. You’ll see when we go to war.”

“Not for another four centuries!” She whined.

“And not soon enough,” Azazel said, cutting off his children, who turned to look at him. “You’re certain that Ker can manage the litter?”

“Positive,” Sam affirmed. “She’s an attentive dam.”

“What about Cerberus?” Meg asked eagerly. Cerberus, the legendary three-headed beast and Guardian of the Hell Gates, was carrying a pup. The creature itself was near-myth; its pup was a much-discussed topic in Hell (especially as that no one knew there was more than one, and many wondered at the beast’s ability to carry at all).

“Any day now,” Azazel answered with a half-smirk. “I hope you two are prepared. The Cerberus will make your _hellpups_ look like lapdogs.”

“We’re more than prepared,” Sam replied with a firm nod. “Will she allow us to take the pup?”

“Gatemaster Hades seems to think so,” Azazel said. “I trust his judgement.” Hades, the Keeper of Hell’s Gates and Cerberus’ master, was said to be as old as God himself, older even than Lucifer. It was rumored that Death created Hades to watch over the Pit. The creature itself was nothing like the demons—Hades’ skin was dry and gray, stretched over an ancient skeleton, with a toothless mouth and a singular, empty eye socket. It was speculated that Hades’ missing eye was the one in possession of the Fates, but no one could ever be sure. Enormous wings grew from the creature’s back, unsuitable for flying due to lifetimes of ruination and rot, but could still open and close like hands, sweeping up those who sought to sneak by him and casting them into true and eternal Oblivion. Hades was terrifying and vastly powerful, but wise without measure or compare. With his voice like a death rattle, he had told Sam once that he had no interest in the quarrels of men, when Sam had offered his title and crown.

Sam had thought it was a gesture of respect; and if Hades had wanted the crown, Sam would have given it. The creature, in turn, had seemed impressed with the Boy King’s initiative, and despite rejecting claim, had told Sam that he would keep careful watch over Hell in his name. Sam had bowed respectfully, thanked him, and made a strategic retreat.

Sam nodded decisively. “As do I. We will prepare for the Tricanid.”

“Very well,” Azazel agreed. “Keep up with the training, kiddos. And, Sammy; go easy on Meg, will you?”

With a squawk of indignation, Meg dropped her sword and took a leap at Sam. The two grappled ineffectively on the rock, rolling clear of their blades. Azazel snickered to himself as he walked away.

Cerberus’ pup was born a week hence, with a howl to raise the dead and curdle the blood of the living. The pup, also a female, was born at nearly a half-ton, and was blind and deaf for several months. Its three heads snapped at anything that came too close, and so the animal could not be removed until she was nearly three months old, three sets of resin-gold eyes sharp and wide. Tricanidae were said to be the ancestor of the Hellhound, and as such, bore similar characteristics, despite being much, much larger. Sam’s hounds, fully-grown, stood with their shoulders around his hip; the Cerberus, however, was born about this size, and would grow to be enormous.

Though Sam was the one to work the pup toward their territory, Meg was the one to name her; Persephone, after the ancient Greek myth of Hades. As Hades was hardly a romantic creature, the story itself was laughable; however, Hades’ companion animal was the Cerberus before, who was unnamed. If Persephone were to grow to become the next true Guardian, she would take her mother’s place as companion.

If, that was, Sam and Meg could properly train her. No one had ever been known to try, aside from Hades, himself.

Despite Sam training his hounds perfectly in ten years (and Meg quite the same), Persephone was a stubborn, vicious creature. Under different circumstances, Sam would say to break her spirit, but that would be counter-productive. No; they simply had to control the great tempest of a creature and hope for the best.

Between the politics of Sam’s newest life development and the frustrations of training Persephone, Sam pulled away from personal interactions. The Council only wanted Sam for his power; Meg rarely did anything but bother Sam on Persephone’s progress, and Azazel was busy preparing an army, with Lilith at his side. Alastair and Crowley had retreated to their respective Levels, and Ruby was too intimidated to go near Persephone, and as Sam spent a majority of his time with the Tricanid, he saw little of the demon, herself.

Sam longed for intelligent conversation, but found himself frustrated with most people; wanted touch, but refused physicality; wanted closeness, but refused intimacy. He had no specific interest in anyone—not anyone he saw frequently. True, Sam felt comfortable around Lucifer, but Lucifer was an _archangel,_ and Sam was not some silly child with a crush. He only wanted equality, which was not something he oft came across as of late. Even Meg was careful with her taunts.

Sam found himself relieved when the day came for him to go to the Cage, hurrying unaccompanied through the Levels, descending into the areas of light, which were more horrible for all the clarity shed on the destruction. He paid it all little mind, from the swarms of demons learning to fight in a more organized fashion, to the piercing wails of wretched souls. Instead, Sam smiled, relieved, at the chance to finally speak _to_ someone without speaking _at_ someone.

Lucifer still transformed before his eyes, from a mass of light and sound and Grace to being a man that bore more resemblance to Sam by the century. Sam was sixteen now, and though he was still nearly a head shorter than Lucifer’s reflection of himself, his height was a far cry from where he had been the last time he’d been in the Cage.

Lucifer watched him always with unrestrained interest and fascination, unlike the rest of Hell, which turned their faces away in fear of their gazes being found unwanted (and they were, but Sam would not strike out for it, little did they know). As Sam slipped through the bars with surprisingly little difficulty, the archangel allowed him space before circling Sam like a predator, surveying and inspecting. “You’ve grown again,” Lucifer said unnecessarily, but he sounded pleased. “Much taller, Sam, more muscle. The angles of your face are sharper.”

“I hadn’t noticed that part,” Sam replied, deadpan, turning into Lucifer’s gaze to meet it head on. “They’ve started calling me _King_ ; I can’t stand it.”

“They _should_ call you King,” Lucifer replied reprovingly, a slight furrow to his brows. “Why call you something other than what you are?”

“ _I_ am not the one they should name their Lord,” he grumbled with a meaningful look to the archangel. At Lucifer’s slight smirk, Sam bristled. “Don’t you agree? _You_ are their creator; they should revere _you_. They don’t even _like_ humans; they call me King because they’ve been told to.”

“And for good reason. Don’t complain of your status, Sam. Embrace your power or others will seek to abuse it.” Lucifer retreated into the Cage, Sam following. Already, even, he felt more at peace; he liked this, whatever it was. The back-and-forth between them. The banter. Even when it grew tense beyond belief, it was still a comfort compared to the monotony of Hell’s rule.

Lucifer sat, watching as Sam drew closer with heavy-lidded eyes. “Stop,” he said before Sam could settle in. Sam gave him a questioning look. “Turn,” Lucifer commanded, motioning for him to do so. Sam gave him an aggravated look, but turned slowly in place.

“Do I meet your standards?” Sam asked pointedly, settling down before Lucifer gave him permission. The archangel simply looked amused, somehow still managing to sit higher up than Sam even in a world with nothing present but white.

He leaned down toward his human vessel. “So _shy_ , Sam.”

“Fuck off,” Sam grumbled without heat.

Lucifer gave him a sharp look, which faded into one of amusement when he saw Sam’s flat look. “What’s wrong, Sam? Trouble in paradise, _Boy King?_ ”

“Paradise? Hardly. Not that I would know.” Sam shifted in an attempt to get more comfortable—and how was it even possible to be _uncomfortable_ in empty space? The intricacies of the Cage were baffling. “And don’t _tease_ me; it’s not very intimidating for an archangel.”

“You bring out the best in me,” Lucifer replied in a sardonic drawl.

Sam looked away, fighting down the urge to make a smart comment—or, worse, to _blush_ like some schoolboy—and composed himself. “Someone’s especially sassy today.”

“I’ve spent the past century thinking up witty rejoinders,” Lucifer replied. “I have it on good authority, though, that you did not spend _your_ time the same, but your attitude has increased remarkably. So, enlighten me; how are things in the kingdom, Boy King?”

Sam rubbed his hands over his face. “Would I be reaching too far to say they’ve been _hellish_?”

For the first time that Sam had ever seen, Lucifer threw back his head and _laughed._ He couldn’t help but stare at the long line of Lucifer’s—his?—neck, the sweep of his hair, the helpless, true amusement on features that were becoming more and more familiar in more ways than one. Sam swallowed, chewing on the inside of his lip. At this rate, things would _not_ end well.

Lucifer’s burning gaze returned properly to Sam after a time, a smile still pulling at his lips. “You’ve caught me off guard, Sam. I’m impressed.”

“I can’t take credit for Father’s bad jokes,” Sam replied, blinking when Lucifer’s smile widened a little further, then finding his own eyes lingering where they had no right. Sam licked his lips and forced himself to look away again. “But that’s enough of that.”

“Yes, of course,” the archangel replied. “Report, then.”

Okay, that he could do. Sam rambled on for a while on the progress of his languages, the training of Persephone, his continued rise of power. He spoke of the army’s drills, their increased skill, and that they were getting closer to being an effective battalion. Lucifer seemed darkly pleased at that.

“And your family?” Lucifer asked, smirk curling at his mouth. “They are well?”

“Yes,” Sam answered quickly, but then stopped. Yes, it was true that his family was in good health, but other than that, he didn’t know. “In truth,” he started, “I’m not entirely sure.”

“Why? Lucifer asked, his smile fading slightly.

“I... I rarely talk to them,” he admitted. “I’m busy—no, actually, I’m not any more busy than usual. I just; I’m not close to them anymore. I’m not close to anyone.”

“Why is that?” Lucifer asked, leaning forward in interest. “Have they wronged you?”

“No,” Sam said, struggling to find a good way to explain. “No; it’s just me. I just find it hard to talk to them—they’re not. They’re just not...”

“Challenging?” Lucifer’s face was blank.

“Yes!” Sam exclaimed, grateful that he wasn’t the one to suggest it first. “I can’t spar with Meg anymore—I’d overpower her, and going easy is hardly worth the time—and Lilith and the rest are busy with their duties. Now that I’m the King, no one wants to talk to me. They’re afraid to offend me. And even if they _did_ speak to me, well, their knowledge on most subjects pales in comparison to—” Sam cut himself off.

“To what? To me?” Lucifer smirked, looking satisfied. Sam balked. “You don’t have to be afraid to admit it, Sam. You and I; we were made to be this way. I’m afraid there aren’t many that will ever be able to match your wit or intellect, much less challenge them. You’re an exceedingly bright human, and your education is unparallelled; you know this.”

“Still,” Sam sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. He kept his gaze away from Lucifer; it was more than that. It was so much more than that. He couldn’t emotionally connect to anyone anymore, and it was breaking him. Sam, despite being frustrated by the intellectual barrier, would have ignored it in favor of having that fallback, but everyone was afraid of him now. It was warranted, but it still hurt.

“You miss it,” the archangel said, reading Sam like a book with his sharp eyes and sharper mind. “Having peers; having _friends_. You do, don’t you? You’re lonely.”

Sam didn’t reply, pressing the heels of his hands hard against his tired eyes. He was so exhausted that it nearly hurt. He wanted to sleep, but it rarely did anything for him anymore. The last traces of his humanity were starting to fade, leaving only the name and the image. It was fitting, maybe, that he was becoming the shell of a human, seeing as that one day, he would become the human shell of an angel.

Sam felt Lucifer sink down to sit across from him, both level in a way that they hadn’t been for a long time. The archangel was futilely trying to say to Sam that they were equals, even though Sam was and would always be laughably outmatched. It was a nice sentiment, but unnecessary. Sam knew his place—it was the reason he would never say many of the things he wished to.

“What’s bothering you, Sam? It’s more than what you’re saying, I can see that.”

“I’m fine,” Sam replied simply, not looking up because he knew that Lucifer would read the real reason right there in his face. If he didn’t show his face, he couldn’t be read, even if he looked like a coward for it. He could deal with that; he couldn’t deal with being revealed.

“Liar,” Lucifer said quietly. “You lied to me the last time we were here, too. When you said that troubling matter was irrelevant; a lie. I know that. I had thought you would come around, tell me what was bothering you, but you didn’t, and I can see now that you won’t. Not if I don’t drag it out of you. You’ll let it sit in the back of your mind and let it fester until you’re so weak from infection and fever that you fall apart.”

“No,” Sam denied, but it was futile. Lucifer had caught the scent of a lie, now, and would not let it go until he had the ugly truth to pull and wrench and twist apart until he could see every fiber of every untruth Sam had been weaving so diligently. Sam wondered what it would be like to see Lucifer’s disgusted stare, the revolted line of his lips. He already felt sick.

“Tell me, Sam,” the archangel commanded.

“I can’t,” he said. He lowered his head. “I _can’t_.”

“You _won’t_ , or you think you won’t. But you will.” Lucifer sat and stared at Sam, expression flat and eyes demanding, but said no more on the matter. He simply sat and watched, knowing that the silence would get to his vessel eventually, and that if he didn’t outright break, Sam would reveal at least a part of what was bothering him.

Sam was determined to wait it out, but he never quite could. Not when he felt sick thinking about it, thinking about the fact that it was _that_ body sitting across from him, watching him carefully for any tell at all. Lucifer _knew_ all of Sam’s tells. He _was_ Sam, and that was the problem, wasn’t it? That the body sitting across from Sam, the one Sam could barely resist reaching out to, was _his_. That was _his_ skin, _his_ face, those were _his_ eyes and fingers and wrists and ears... _his_ lips.

Lucifer was right. Humans _were_ disgusting. If Sam could look at his own body and feel like _this_... they _had_ to be.

But it wasn’t _himself_ he was drawn to, and Sam knew that. When he looked at his own reflection, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Plain, even. A dirt-streaked face, cracked nails, a slightly-crooked mouth. Unremarkable. Sam was no great beauty like Lilith, no fierce thing like Meg, no creature of unmatchable charisma like even Azazel. He was a human, and the only thing he felt when he saw himself was disgust.

But then... Lucifer. Even wearing the image of Sam, he was _different_. It wasn’t that it _was_ Sam, it was the way he _wore_ Sam. Sam was strange and not particularly interesting, but Lucifer in Sam’s skin was a master of dangerous poise and grace. It wasn’t the shoulders or the spine Sam felt drawn to, but the _set_ of them; wasn’t the eyes he felt pinned by, but the _look_ in them; wasn’t the mouth he wanted to touch or explore, but the _words_ that came from it. Sam knew it was Lucifer that he wanted, felt drawn to by inexplicable magnetism, but was that any better; if it wasn’t the body Sam wanted, but the archangel wrapped within?

Sam couldn’t even put a finger on when it all started, if it had _started_ at all—maybe it had just always been there, hidden behind the childish craving for affection and the adolescent desire for praise. But, as most of Hell sought to remind him these days, he _wasn’t_ a child anymore. He was over sixteen, an adult by most standards, with a body shaped by over a millennium of dangerous work and a mind shaped by centuries of ancient knowledge. Sam was a man; Hell’s King. The General’s Son. The Lord’s Hand. So many titles given to him as he earned them, but in his own mind, he was still just Sam, The Human.

Sam clenched his fists. What was the worth they all saw in him? So he could fight, so he could speak and read—it didn’t matter. He was still a human, still just a cockroach accidentally dropped on a pedestal far higher than he had any right to be on.

“You’re upset,” Lucifer said, voice impatient and approaching frustrated. “You’re ashamed, but you won’t say why. I only want to _help_ you, Sam.”

“You can’t,” Sam said quietly.

“And, by that, you mean that you think I won’t.” Lucifer let out a short sigh, resting his chin in his hand, staring still at Sam. Sam refused to look up at him, and focused his attention on Lucifer’s elbow instead. He said nothing. “You’re avoiding eye contact, which leads me to believe that this is about me, or you’re afraid that I’ll be able to tell if you look at me; maybe both.”

“Stop,” Sam whispered, covering his face. “ _Please_.”

“Pleading doesn’t suit you, Sam,” Lucifer said tersely. “ _Tell me_.”

“No.”

“Then leave.”

 _That_ startled a reaction out of Sam; his eyes finally made contact, but he saw no joke on the archangel’s face. “What?”

“If you won’t tell me, leave,” Lucifer said. He scowled at Sam. “What you’re showing me is weakness. It’s pathetic. If you will not allow me to help you with your problems, Sam, it only shows me that you do not want to solve them, and I have no time for that.” The archangel stood and crossed his arms, scowling down at his shell-shocked future vessel. “Come back to me when you’ve grown more. Like this, I only see a child.”

He turned, and Sam felt panic as the archangel began to leave. If Lucifer left him, what else did he have? What purpose would he serve? “Please,” Sam begged, finding himself unable to stand. “Don’t send me away.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Lucifer asked without facing him, though his steps did slow to a halt. “You’re being childish, and I won’t waste my time with your self-pity.”

“If I say what I need to, it’ll change things,” Sam said, swallowing down the impending break in his voice and failing. “I’ll—I’ll break this.”

“You cannot break anything that can’t be fixed.”

“You don’t know that.”

Lucifer turned at that, scowling at Sam. “No, I don’t, because you will not _tell_ me. I can’t solve a problem that you will not share, I can’t assist you in bearing your pain if you will not show it to me. I can’t heal wounds you hide, Samuel, and I find I have little patience to wait around and feel sorry for you. I don’t have that capacity, not for sympathy; I only have the ability to offer assistance equal to the conflict you face.”

“I _get_ it, okay?” Sam said quietly. “That you’re not human; I _am._ I _know_ that. I’m not going to ask for something you can’t give.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed. “I will always give you what you need if it is within my power. You don’t _need_ self-pity, therefore I’m not inclined to give it, not that I could. There’s a difference between _want_ and _need._ ”

“Exactly; I don’t—I don’t _need_ what I’m—I don’t need this.”

“I disagree.” Lucifer took a few slow steps back toward Sam. “You’re hurting, Sam, _badly._ I know you very well, and if this was just another _want_ , it wouldn’t bother you. You may perceive it as something unnecessary, but it wouldn’t pain you so if it was something you could go on without.”

Sam ducked his head; he didn’t want to admit to the truth. The truth might ruin everything, and it was so much easier to lie—but he could never lie to Lucifer, who would not allow him to do so.

One strong hand gripped Sam’s chin, pulling his face up so Lucifer could stare at him from a closer range, the archangel crouching before the human. Impatient; always so impatient. “What do you _need_ , Sam?” Lucifer asked.

Sam’s teeth sank into the inside of his lip, fighting the urge to destroy everything with one word; but he couldn’t. Whether it was because he was Sam, or maybe just because he was human, he _would_ destroy it. It was the only thing he knew how to do.

Sam stared up at the archangel Lucifer, matching his burning eyes with a burning gaze and confessed:

“You. I need you.”

 

 

 


	9. 1:9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter this week, but this is a lot of general establishment. Next chapter will be much longer... and hopefully worth the wait. ;)

_“You. I need you.”_

 

* * *

 

Sam attempted to pull his face away from Lucifer’s grip, but the archangel held fast, his expression somewhere just before the title of _befuddled_. “How do you mean?”

Sam blinked rapidly, humiliated and mortified. “What do you think?” he snapped.

“Do not project your anger onto me, Sam, I’m just trying to understand,” Lucifer growled in reply. “You say you need me; you _have_ me.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Sam said, nausea rolling in his gut. “ _I_ don’t even understand.”

“Then explain as best you can,” Lucifer said tersely, maintaining his firm hold so that Sam couldn’t turn away.

Sam hesitated, but once he started speaking, he found he couldn’t stop. “I want to be near you,” he said in a rush. “With you. All the time. I feel so much better when I am, even though you make me so angry and scared. I _am_ scared. I’m just human, and you’re so much more than that, and the things I want are things you would probably _never_ want, or even _get_. I just; I _want_...” Sam swallowed convulsively. “Like Ruby wanted me, but _more,_ and with _you_. Closer. Complete.”

Lucifer’s head tilted just slightly, as it did whenever Sam had said or done something especially interesting. Never before had Sam felt so small or so sick to his stomach. This was it. This was the end.

“You desire me,” Lucifer said finally, quietly, said like a statement, but with an air almost like a question. Sam nodded once, little as he could with Lucifer’s near-bruising grip. “Desire contact, closeness. Intimacy. Why?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered helplessly. “I just do. I don’t even know how.”

Lucifer frowned. “Don’t you?”

Sam’s eyes widened. “No, never. Not anyone.”

“Good,” Lucifer replied, but still looked a bit lost, as if his own response had surprised him. Then his eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with something strange and foreign and burning with curiosity. “Do you love me, Sam?”

Sam’s face was pale and terrified. “I... I don’t know. I don’t know how to do that, either.”

Lucifer stared at him, considering, before his grasp on Sam’s face softened just enough that it no longer hurt quite as much, his thumb shifting up until it was sliding over Sam’s lips. Sam let out a shaky exhale and Lucifer’s expression darkened, and in one swift movement had Sam’s mouth pressed against his own, careful, a little clumsy, cold. The contact itself was far less intense than the way Lucifer was staring at him, two sets of identical eyes open and locked.

Sam realized then that maybe both of them were a little unsure as to how this was supposed to go. Sam, however, had the instinct for this. His eyes fluttered shut, breathing unsteadily as he pulled back to change the angle, lips parting enough to slide over, between, his fingertips coming to rest ever-so-lightly on Lucifer’s tense jaw. His heart was pounding in his throat; he wondered if the archangel could taste it.

The kiss was slow and cautious, and once Sam had opened up, Lucifer had been all too happy to take control; both hands gentled to cradle Sam’s jaw, holding him like he was breakable. It was the only time that Sam could think of that Lucifer had ever been careful with him. When Lucifer let Sam pull back to breathe, he was still staring at him. Sam swallowed.

“Go ahead,” he said breathily. “Tell me I’m disgusting; an abomination.”

“I could say that, if it’s truly what you want,” Lucifer replied, scanning Sam’s face. “But I don’t believe it.”

Sam made a quiet, disbelieving sound.

“I could never think ill of you, Sam,” Lucifer said. “Not like that. I will not turn you away when you’re in need.”

“You’re an angel,” Sam argued quietly, despondently. “You don’t _need_ this the way I do. It’s not fair to ask you for this.”

“You aren’t asking; you wouldn’t ask for the things you need, Sam, I know that. I am making an offer. True, angels don’t require physical contact the way humans do, but it doesn’t mean they can’t experience it. And you’re not any human; you’re special, unlike any other, and you’re _mine_ , Sam, to take care of.”

Sam put his hands on Lucifer’s wrists, carefully moving the archangel’s hand away from his face. It felt nice, he had to admit, that Lucifer actually _cared_... in his own way, at least. But it wasn’t what he wanted. “You’ve done enough for me,” Sam said, sighing in frustration. “I want this, but only if you do, too—not for my sake.”

Lucifer frowned. “You’re making this overly complicated.”

“Call it a stupid human thing,” Sam replied. “But I don’t want to feel like I forced this.”

“The thought of _you_ forcing _me_ into anything is laughable, Sam,” the archangel snapped. “I’ve _offered_ ; you lessen the meaning of that offer by arguing with me. You’ve said that you want this and I won’t allow you to back out on grounds of feeling unsure or embarrassed. It’s petty and below you.”

The two glared at each other, scowling heavily. “I’m not—”

“Sam, do you want this?” Lucifer asked.

Sam’s rebuttal stuttered to a stop. “I—I’m— _Lucifer_ —yes, okay? I want this.”

“Good,” the archangel said simply. “Then we’re in agreement. This discussion is over.”

And so began the dysfunctional and most-likely-unhealthy relationship between the archangel and the vessel.

 

* * *

 

 

Though the relationship between Sam and Lucifer was new, the circumstances under which it began disallowed for the phase of tentative awkwardness that plagued most fledgling partnerships. In many ways, this step made things more natural between them, like something had been missing until Sam and Lucifer had crashed into each other in a tangle of wills and mouths. It wasn’t soft; it wasn’t nice; there was affection there, but it was never brought up after that initial discussion. Compared to most functional relationships (not that either of them knew anything about that), theirs would probably be considered abusive, unequal, and unfair. Sam and Lucifer never questioned their dynamic. It just _was_ , and it worked.

Somehow, though, this step was unexpected for the rest of Hell—or those very, very few privy to that information. Azazel had peered at the bruises on Sam’s neck suspiciously before letting out a stunned guffaw; he didn't say anything about it, but he looked at Sam differently after that. Meg, though, had badgered Sam about the marks, asking after the identity of _the girl_. She’d kept on it until Sam snapped ‘there _is_ no _girl_ ’ and stormed off in an irritated huff. She’d tracked him down later and apologized, but her curiosity was still potent; Sam warned her off of it, said it was none of her business, and that if she told anyone, he would fit her with Persephone’s muzzle.

Two days later, Meg entered his quarters unannounced and sat on his bed.

“What do you want, Meg?” Sam asked.

“Did he force you?”

Sam spun from his work, busy as he was polishing his demon-killing knife, and stared at her. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.” Meg’s face was surprisingly serious, as she almost never was. Dark eyes stared at him, unwavering. “I should have known; there would never be anyone else. Did he force you?”

“No,” Sam said sharply, the realized himself and lowered his volume. “No, he...” Sam flushed. “I asked.”

Meg looked relieved at that; Sam wondered what she would have done if he’d confirmed her suspicions, false as they were. “You know it won’t end well,” she said next, quietly. “I’m saying this as your sister, Sam. How long can it last?”

“‘Better to have loved and lost than never loved at all’,” Sam quoted. Meg’s eyes widened, and Sam’s did in turn. “Figuratively,” he added quickly. “Look, it really is none of your business. It doesn’t matter what’s happening between us; it doesn’t change anything about what I’m meant to do. Maybe it’ll even make things easier. But I don’t need my status thrown into doubt by demons whispering that I’m just his _whore._ ” Sam grimaced.

“They would never dare,” Meg replied. “It’s practically treason.”

“They’re demons. Of course they would dare,” Sam said with a roll of his eyes. “Half of them don’t believe in him, anyway. It would smear his name, at best.”

“Sam, if he chose to accept you, that makes you the consort, the _only_ consort. I understand your desire for discretion, but they wouldn’t be so stupid as to insult the King and our Lord in one breath. And if they were, I would cut them down, myself.”

“So glad I have a champion to defend my honor,” Sam drawled sarcastically.

“Honor, yes. Virtue, no,” Meg replied with a smirk. “By the next century, our Child King may even be a man.”

“Away with you,” Sam said, swatting at her. Meg danced out of the way with a laugh. “Vicious wench.”

“You should be thanking me,” Meg said with a smirk. “You know my loyalties; I won’t say a word.”

“Be sure you don’t,” Sam warned. “Or I’ll get you back.”

“I’m sure.”

That was the end of that; Meg never spoke another word, but smirked at the bruises as they yellowed and faded altogether.

 

 

 


	10. 1:10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit, consensual sexual material of a questionable nature. If this bothers you (you rare, precious, adorable few that mind), you can attempt to skip this chapter, but I can't promise you'll understand what's going on. There's really no discernible break, so you'll have to do your best if you want to read it anyway.
> 
> For the rest of you (you sly dogs), this is probably more along the lines of what you've been waiting for. Enjoy it while it lasts, because this sort of thing won't be coming around again for a while. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The next century was spent in a long stretch of politics and pining. Sam began to meet the troops, practicing with the squadron of demons and learning to command them. He allowed them to challenge him openly; welcomed it, and exalted in beating down the demons who sought to overpower their human King. He killed only a handful of the truly overaggressive soldiers, mostly because the demons responded best to flashy displays and learned best the meaning of power from the presence of blood and sulfur.

Becoming a commanding-general helped to distract Sam from the near-constant longing that came from being apart from Lucifer. Where Sam had always looked forward to the meetings before, he found himself minding the hours in a way he never had. A century had never seemed so long. The carnage helped to pull focus—where one opponent was not a challenge to Sam anymore (no one could compare to Lucifer’s sparring skill), brawling with numerous demons was different. It felt more like war, more like battle, and less like practice.

He liked it. Liked the blood, the sweat, the adrenaline rush of it all. The sting of blades and claws against his skin was welcome; made him _feel_. Sam had grown so desensitized to pain during his years of torture, but this wasn’t pain for the sake of pain. This was different; with skill, Sam could prevent his pain. The better he fought, the less he would be hurt. It was something to strive for; and though no single sword felt as right and balanced in his palm as the blade of an archangel, he managed to find one with a similar reach and weight that made him all the more deadly.

It was good to fight this way, Sam figured. To learn what pain was, and how to avoid it. Once he and Lucifer had merged, Sam wouldn’t have to worry about things such as how to bind wounds and healing times; Lucifer would be able to mend him. But this; it was messy, and the effects lingered. It made him more careful, calculated, and staved off the reckless desires that clawed in Sam’s gut and spine. Still, the more controlled Sam became, the more it made him crave being able to let loose.

Seventeen came, and with it, more prominent cheekbones, corded arms and shoulders, and a sharper tongue. Sam’s hormones started to settle out, no longer in such a constant state of flux; his mind was better for it, calmer, less disorganized—focused, which he and Lucifer exploited in a day full of battles of swords, wills, and mouths.

Eighteen brought a talent for strategy, spending more and more time with Azazel in his study, father and son pouring over topographical maps of Earth’s surface. They marked locations with colored ink; the location of the Devil’s Gate, the few spots remaining with strong auras of magic to draw from, potent plots of Holy Ground, including ancient churches and cathedrals, and the place where Sam would rendezvous with his officers once reclaiming his vessel.

Azazel introduced him to aspects of Earth’s culture; things that would make Sam seem like he belonged, making him a very effective wolf in sheep’s clothing. Topography became geography; ancient rituals became the laws of physics; political tutoring became study of government (the concept of a democracy was fascinating to Sam; even more fascinating was the concept of corruption within a system meant to be fair and pure). Sam studied biology, chemistry, astrology, physical science, maths, history; things he had never dreamed that humans could have. He’d always thought them to be such an ignorant and idiotic race, but they had such great capacity for learning and creative thought. Art was something entirely beyond Sam’s understanding; he saw the need for creative thought within strategic thinking, but the ability to _create_ was something he could not grasp. Creation was left to creatures like Lucifer; vast, beautiful, powerful in ways Sam did not comprehend or even try to. Sam found much more comfort in the scientific explanations of things like music and art; mathematical formulas and expressions that could explain why these things were pleasing as they were to hear or observe. It made him feel much less lost and out of his depth.

It was with this newfound respect for humanity that Sam returned to Lucifer in the Cage. For the first time, he was _questioning_ things—not to be insubordinate, but in the hopes of understanding Lucifer’s motivations all the better.

He slipped between the bars and into the archangel’s waiting grasp, tilting his head back in willing surrender for Lucifer to claim his mouth in a clash of tongues and teeth. Sam made a helpless noise of agreement, leaning his face more securely into Lucifer’s palm, his eyes slipping open to lock on the angel through the thin gaps between his long lashes. Sam made his consent and pleasure known in his soft bites to Lucifer’s lips, the searching swirl of his tongue and the resulting quiet, satisfied moan that escaped Sam at the taste—something like the scent of the air after the heat storms, dry and sharp with the ozone left from the red-tinted lightning.

“Sam,” Lucifer murmured, letting his mouth fall away to Sam’s jawline and giving it a sharp, claiming bite that left pink indents on Sam’s skin. “I’ve been waiting.”

“That makes two of us,” Sam replied, his fingers slipping from their resting place on Lucifer’s forearms, taking a step back and letting his right hand fall into Lucifer’s left, allowing the archangel to lead him deeper into the Cage.

“You look well,” the archangel said, pausing to look at Sam. “ _Very_ well,” he revised with a slow quirk of his lips. “You’ve grown again.”

“That _does_ happen,” Sam said cheekily, pausing to sit facing Lucifer, their crossed legs brushing at the knees. He took a moment to absorb the sight he’d been missing—a body similar to his in look, but with an air of power and authority Sam could never emulate (that was, not until it was Lucifer himself inside Sam’s skin, that power thrumming in harmonic tandem with the longing ache of Sam’s soul). Still, there were some notable differences that Sam waited for his body to catch up to—Sam’s hair still maintained some of its babyish curl and tousled frizz, and though his face was filling out, he still had a sense of delicacy to his features that Lucifer’s version of Sam did not possess. Sam was still lacking in the shade of stubble on his jaw, and his hands were bare of many of the scars that made abstract patterns over Lucifer’s knuckles. He wondered at them with a lingering sense of innocent intrigue that even the horrors of Hell had not yet managed to purge from him.

“Your eyes have changed,” Lucifer said, distracting Sam from his surveying of his almost-double.

“How so?” Sam asked, frowning, fingers touching his eyelid with curiosity.

“It’s nothing physical,” Lucifer replied. “The light in them, it’s different.”

“Nothing like the glow of the limelight; it’s good to be King,” Sam retorted wryly, smiling a little at Lucifer’s surprised look. “A human phrase, I know. I’ve been studying.”

“I see,” the archangel said, taking a moment to stare at Sam, unwavering. “You’re fascinated by them, aren’t you? The humans.”

Sam shrank back a bit at the disparaging tone. “I _am_ one.”

“No. You’re better than them,” Lucifer argued sharply. “You hardly deserve the name.”

“Tell that to the rest,” Sam replied, biting back most of the bitterness that wanted to spew forth—most, but not all. “I’m human enough to them.”

Lucifer stared at him, coldly stone-faced. “The demons are insignificant filth. All of them combined would not be worth even a single hair on your head, Sam. A human you may be, but that is only in title.”

“The humans are smart,” Sam argued, ignoring Lucifer’s snipe about the demons—generally, he would agree, but there were some demons that mattered; Meg, Azazel, Lilith. His family. “I’ve read their literature, their science and studied their logic. It’s incredible.”

“The work of an exceptional few,” Lucifer replied with a scowl.

“Maybe,” Sam said. “But that’s only their intelligence—Lucifer, they exceed me in ways I cannot describe. Their creation, their creativity; it’s a quality I lack outside of strategy, and even that is more critical thinking than actual art. I destroy; they create. Tell me who is worth more, then? What will be left of the world once I clear the broken parts away? What will we do with the shell if there’s no one left to make it beautiful again?”

“As much as they build, Sam, they destroy. The human world is overpopulated, teeming with murder and sin. Do you think this science is the first time they’ve discovered it?” Lucifer leaned away from Sam, something dark pulling at his borrowed face. “There have been many times that the humans advanced and then destroyed all their knowledge and creation in their greed and hate and jealousy. From the beginning, they were flawed; they snuck past Michael into the Garden of Eden and stole from the Tree of Knowledge. My brother was so ashamed that, once I had openly protested against the humans for their sins, he blamed that sin on me. He said that I had _tempted_ our Father’s little pet projects into it.” Lucifer’s lip curled in disdain. “I wanted nothing to do with them. It wasn’t true. But my Father was all too happy to believe Michael, the perfect, prodigal son.”

Sam reached out to Lucifer, hesitating when Lucifer snatched his hand away before Sam could touch. Instead, Sam lay his hand on Lucifer’s knee, quiet and regretful. “I’m sorry.”

Lucifer’s face tightened. “I twisted Lilith because she asked—before she had stolen the Fruit, she was known as Eve. With her enlightenment, she wanted free will, power; all the things that God had denied her when he made her subservient to Adam. I gave her what she asked for. I gave her power, influence, charisma. Freedom. A human as she had been wasn’t made to be those things, so she became something else.” When Sam reached out again, Lucifer did not deny him the fingers that twined with his, resting together on Lucifer’s bent knee. “The demons say that I created them—in a sense, I did. But the creation of demons was not so much that as a destruction of humanity. I didn’t make them; I simply broke something else, and they were the result.”

Sam squeezed Lucifer’s fingers in his own, drawing the archangel’s attention. He shrugged lightly, looking away, face flushed pink and eyes downcast. Lucifer raised his eyebrows in response, but said nothing.

“They might be violent, but so am I,” Sam said. “I get just as angry, but even more destructive.”

“That’s different,” Lucifer said simply. “Your destruction is calculated and with purpose. The ruin of humanity is widespread, not directed at all. They’re clumsy and ignorant.”

“So was I. The only reason I’m not is because you made me that way.” Sam cocked his head, frowning. “And they didn’t have you to teach them differently. Humans live for, what, a century at maximum? I’ve been here for two millennia, if not more. Father explained it to me—a month of their time is ten years of ours. I age on human time because my body is still alive somewhere on the surface. But if I’m eighteen, I’ve been here for a minimum of two-hundred-and-sixteen months on the surface. That’s two-thousand-one-hundred-and-sixty years, and I spent most of those years being just as ignorant and stupid as they are. If I’d only had one century, I never would have had a chance to learn the way I have.”

Lucifer frowned back at Sam, trying to get a read on him. “What are you saying?”

“I’m only this way because you _made_ me this way,” Sam said in frustration. “If you hadn't had a hand in my development, I would have been just as clumsy and ignorant as they are.”

Lucifer's frown deepened. “That's not true.”

“Isn't it?”

“You were always made to be special, Sam,” he said. “You were never like the others. Too kind, too driven to make a difference. Even in all the other worlds, you were well-trained and intelligent. You were always like this. Always meant to be like this.”

“I can't believe that,” Sam said in reply with a slight shake of his head. “The other Sams that I might have been—they had, what? Twenty six years to become what I've had over two thousand to be.”

“I didn't say that you weren't superior this time, Sam,” the archangel argued. “You're better now than you were in any of those worlds. But even during those other times, you were so much better than them.”

Sam snorted quietly, turning his incredulous glance onto the archangel. “You know what I think?”

Lucifer gave Sam an unimpressed look. “What do you think, Sam?”

“I think that you just _want_ me to be better than them. You want to say that I'm different. It makes it easier for you to admit that you're going to have to rely on a human for help. You justify my involvement by saying that I'm special so you don't have to be quite as angry that I'm involved at all.”

Lucifer's expression twisted and darkened, his hand tightening around Sam's fingers until Sam was wincing and hissing his displeasure. “That's what you think? Truly? You think that I have to lie to myself to feel _good_ about this situation? That's a human action, Sam, not something I would do. I wouldn't say something I didn't mean. You _are_ special. You are. And if you are looking for excuses so you don't have to acknowledge the fact that you're simply _better_ , then I am ashamed of your self-esteem. I took the time to make this happen because I knew you _could_ be better than what you were. It doesn't mean you weren't _already_ , but that you had so much potential that it seemed a shame to let it all go to waste. Look at what you're capable of, Sam. Look at what you can do.”

Sam tried in vain to tug his hand free again. Lucifer simply wasn't having it. “You're the first thing I've ever truly _tried_ to create, Sam. The demons weren't a creation. You _are_. You're something else entirely. I wanted you to be better and to know you were better. I wanted you to feel strong like the other versions of you never did. I wanted you to be as safe as you could be while living this life. I wanted you to have a family and to know affection, if not _love_. Tell me, Sam—did I fail?”

Sam stopped fighting Lucifer's grip, his shoulders slumping slightly. Was that really what Lucifer had wanted? Truly? “I—”

“Did I, Sam? Aside from the obvious shortcomings of the majority of your company and kingdom, do you feel strong? Special? Are you happy?”

Sam ducked his head, then quietly admitted, “Yeah, I'm happy.”

When he lifted his eyes, Lucifer was giving him a searching look. “Honestly?”

“Honestly,” Sam agreed. But there was something else there—a nagging sense that Lucifer wasn't just being prideful. And there; doubt. He truly wanted for Sam’s happiness. Sam's expression softened in understanding and leaned over to cup Lucifer's face in his palm, sharing a slow kiss. He turned his face into the archangel's stubbled cheek, gently rubbing it against his own. “I appreciate what you've done for me. I do. It seems unfair that you've given me so much when I can give back so little.”

Lucifer watched Sam with sharp eyes, pulling back. “You know that isn't true. I've given you what you always should have had. What you're giving me is more—another chance. Freedom. You're making a sacrifice that most could never understand.”

Sam’s expression flickered subtly, gone before Lucifer could call names to the emotions he’d seen. He’d thought maybe it looked like sadness. Maybe like doubt. “I’m giving you what you always should have had,” Sam replied with a wry twist of his lips. “That’s all.”

“You’re worried,” Lucifer said. Sam shook his head. “Don’t lie to me, Sam.”

“I’m not,” he argued. “I’m not lying and I’m not worried. I’m anxious. I’m tired of waiting.” His eyes burned as he reached out to Lucifer again, touching his face, fingers sliding over stubble and skin, back to hook under the edge of Lucifer’s jaw. “Sooner than later, the army will be ready. I’m getting tired of sitting around and talking about this war. I want it to start.” Sam rose up onto his knees and slid forward, legs splayed wide to hover over Lucifer’s lap, bracketed around Lucifer’s hips. The archangel looked up at him with heated curiosity, willing, at least for the moment, to let Sam have his fun. “I want to fight. I want to be free. I want _you_ to be free.” Sam leaned down, arms sliding around Lucifer’s neck, hands gripping his hair and giving a slight tug. Lucifer indulged Sam’s controlling gesture and let his head tilt back, sighing when Sam bent to bite and suck at his neck. “What’s the good in being King if I’m stuck here in Hell?”

“There’s a plan, Sam,” Lucifer said, his voice making the stretch of his throat rumble against Sam’s lips. “We have to be patient.”

“To the Racks with patience,” Sam hissed, leaving the imprints of his teeth behind, fingers pulling at Lucifer’s strange and unfamiliar collared shirt, shifting it aside. He bit down at the muscle that linked neck and shoulder, working it over until there was an angry red and purple mark. Sam pulled back when he was satisfied, brushing a soft, gentle kiss over the bruise, so unlike his aggressive display just before. He looked at Lucifer, eyes wild and wide and desperate. “You want to get out of here, don’t you?”

Lucifer growled, pulling Sam in by the waist and pushing him back by the shoulders, successfully toppling him over; Sam landed on his back with an ungraceful _whoosh_ of breath. He looked aggravated, at least until Lucifer followed him down, Sam’s arms spread wide and his legs pinned together, the archangel hovering over him with arms planted firmly on either side of Sam’s head. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him—Sam spread and posed like Christ on his cross, with Lucifer reigning victorious over his most willing sacrifice. Sam tilted his head back, welcoming, but his eyes bright with challenge.

The archangel nearly shone with dangerous pride—Sam was _his._ Sam _wanted_ to be his. The newest prodigal son, the one who suffered torment in a thousand other worlds to save the humans from their sins and the Apocalypse they brought; and now, he belonged to Lucifer wholly and completely, as it was always meant to be. He was so much more than any of the humans, but blind to his own greatness. In the grand scheme of all time, what were a few more centuries to wait? He already had Sam.

Sam shuddered as Lucifer’s nose brushed against his temple, arching up in the blind search for some sort of greater contact. “You didn’t answer me,” he said breathlessly, watching Lucifer’s expression with rapt focus.

“No sense in answering a question you already _know_ the answer to,” the archangel replied, scraping his teeth over the arch of Sam’s cheekbone, watching with satisfaction as red flooded just under the skin, adding a violent burst of color to the soft flush already present. Sam’s lips parted to let a tremulous whimper escape, tasting as sweet as it sounded as Lucifer swallowed it down, tongue dipping into Sam’s mouth to lap every bit from the perfect line of his teeth. Sam’s lips made a tight seal over Lucifer’s, attempting to suck the flavor from his tongue, needy and lewd when he broke away to pant in shared air. A shiny strand of wetness connected their mouths and broke when Sam licked his lips, swollen and tender and deliciously red.

The Boy King’s arms lifted, hands settling at Lucifer’s waist and giving him an insistent tug. Lucifer did not oblige the silent demand, moving swiftly instead to pin Sam’s wrists back down, resting his full weight on them to assure that Sam wouldn’t move and smirking when he felt the attempted readjustment of Sam’s hands. It was worth the almost-awkward position to hear Sam’s frustrated little whine at being rendered immobile and still _wanting_.

“You _know_ I want to be out of the Cage,” Lucifer murmured, leaning down to mouth teasingly at Sam’s neck and nip along the shell of his ear. “You know I want to be free, to walk the Earth again. I want it as badly as I want to be inside of you, as I was always meant to be.” Sam’s shaky moan spurred him onward into a frenzy of heated words and possessive marks bitten into Sam’s flesh. “I want to make my home under your skin, to fill that empty space at your core. I want to wrap myself in the heat of you, to chain everything that I am to your soul so you will never again be alone or without me. I want to _feel_ you as we burn it all to the ground, together.”

“ _Please,”_ Sam begged, his fingers twitching with the need to touch, to grab and hold and grip. He arched upward again, but Lucifer's Grace pinned him down with barely a thought, fluctuating with desire and pride at seeing his vessel flushed and desperate, so out of control compared to his usual composure. “Lucifer, _please._ Need you.”

The archangel felt a thrill at that, but did not yet give in. Instead, he kept Sam’s body pinned even as he removed his hands, drawing back and hovering over him as Lucifer pulled Sam’s tunic open, leaving wet, sucking kisses down his sternum. Wide, chilled hands settled onto Sam’s chest, fingernails leaving crescent-shaped indents as the archangel gripped just a little too hard onto soft, tender human skin. Lucifer’s eyes mapped the innumerable scars spread over Sam’s torso, surveying the damage and baptizing the marks with his tongue, each deliberate lap drawing more of Sam’s inexplicable taste, each slide of lips a cool contrast against the warmth of Sam, each gentle nip a new and more pleasant memory left behind for Sam to take in and drive out the past pain. Lucifer almost wished that he wasn’t being selfish, but the truth was that these marks didn’t change anything, no matter who they were left by; to make Sam forget the hurtful touch of others, he would paint over each and every one.

Sam’s breathing was wrought with needy gasps and shuddering sighs, but Lucifer moved no faster for them. This sort of action was strange and unfamiliar to him, seen a thousand times and disregarded a thousand more; with Sam, though, things were different. One day, this echoed masterpiece of flesh and bone would not just be Sam’s, but _theirs_. It deserved his attention, _demanded_ it, even—and Lucifer would not deny his fascination on the pretense of this sort of worship being a human action. Sam _was_ human, and was also his to take care of in every way he could. Sam needed this, but Lucifer was finding that fulfilling that need was more satisfying than expected. The aching glow of Sam’s soul reaching out to his Grace was something like a balm, wordless reassurance that he was doing something right, that Sam needed him and _wanted_ him. The phenomena transcended words.

“Stop teasing,” Sam gasped as Lucifer mouthed at a particularly pale scar above Sam’s hip.

“Is that an order?” Lucifer asked, smirking as he nosed at Sam’s waist. His fingers slid over Sam’s chest, thumb brushing over one tightened nipple and drawing a hiss before they continued the journey down to his hips, over the swells of Sam’s abs and into the dip of his navel, eventually curling around the sharp bones and slipping just under the fabric of Sam’s waistband.

“Would you get on with it if I said that it was?” Sam replied in a strangled voice, stomach twitching from the tingling aftermath of Lucifer’s teasing touch.

“Maybe,” said the archangel, nudging Sam’s legs apart and kneeling between them, flashing a smug smirk up at his trembling vessel as Lucifer slid the backs of his knuckles across the inside of Sam’s thigh. “But you should know that I don’t have a good track record with authority figures, _My Lord_ ,” he added sarcastically, trailing one finger so very lightly over Sam’s painfully obvious (and a little painful-looking) erection through the trousers. Sam’s resulting moan was glorious. “Begging might get you further.”

“I’ve _been_ begging,” Sam snapped, his face viciously red, the flush spreading down his neck and into his chest, fists clenched and knuckles white. “I’ve been begging this whole _time_ , you capricious ass! Stop jerking me around!”

“I thought that was what you _wanted_ ,” Lucifer replied, unable to smother a sharp grin. “Talk about mixed signals. Make up your mind, Sam.”

“You son of a—” Sam hissed, voice cracking like it hadn’t since he was fourteen. Lucifer decided that was _quite_ enough of that and decided to have a bit of mercy, deftly unbuttoning Sam’s pants and drawing them down his thighs; instead of removing them entirely, he tugged them to Sam’s knees and knelt atop the fabric himself, effectively pinning Sam’s legs as he _finally_ released his Grace-woven tethers on the rest of Sam.

Sam leaned up immediately, reaching for Lucifer and yanking the archangel into a furious kiss, biting too hard on Lucifer’s lips and drawing blood. The sharp tang of iron was shared between the two, bitter and metallic even after Lucifer’s Grace sealed his broken lip on instinct. Sam, aggressive and frustrated as he was, broke away first, his fists clenched and twisted into the patterned material of Lucifer’s shirt. He panted against the column of Lucifer’s throat, breath hitching when Lucifer’s fingers curled around his cock.

“Please,” Sam begged, giving in. “Pleasepleaseplease. I’m begging, okay? You win. _Please._ ”

Lucifer smiled triumphantly, his free hand molding possessively around the nape of Sam’s neck and sliding down, settling at Sam’s lower back, fingernails scraping against the light material of Sam’s open shirt. “Now, was that so hard?” Lucifer asked smugly, giving a slow pull over Sam’s length and reveling in the whine it elicited.

Sam’s hips lifted to chase the contact, but the movement was slight since his legs were restricted. “Let me up,” he insisted, attempting to push Lucifer back. “Wanna be closer.”

“So impatient,” Lucifer said, but the strangled note in Sam’s voice made him inclined to oblige. He moved as Sam guided him, sitting back and watching with heavy-lidded eyes as Sam stripped out of his clothing altogether. Sam paused after that, sitting back on his haunches and watching Lucifer in turn with that same heated gaze, cheeks red and lips tender.

“Seems a little unfair, don’t you think?” Sam asked, teeth a sharp white contrast against his lower lip.

Lucifer’s eyebrows raised, thought train derailed from simply getting his hands on his vessel and extracting more of his siren sounds. “How?”

Sam’s tongue darted out, wetting his dry lips with a damp shine, his eyes following the line of Lucifer’s borrowed body, lingering the bruises on Lucifer’s neck, his clothed chest, the front of his pants, eventually flicking back to Lucifer’s face. He didn’t directly answer the question, but his answer was an acceptable alternative. “I want to touch you,” Sam said quietly instead. “Can I?”

Lucifer frowned slightly. “You have been.”

Sam huffed in response. “Hardly—that’s not what I meant, though.” He crawled closer, distracting Lucifer with the bronzed curve of his spine and the sinuous slide of his shoulders. Sam was the most dangerous sort of creature; beautiful and wide-eyed, calculating like no other, and entirely unaware of his own allure.

Sam settled over Lucifer’s lap, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of the strange garment, tiny and difficult to grasp to his trembling hands. “I want to touch you the way you touch me. I want— _damn_ this shirt!”

“Easy on the flannel,” Lucifer replied, amused, his own hands taking over to assist in the removal of his overshirt. The narrowing of Sam’s eyes when he saw the t-shirt underneath, uncomprehending of Earth’s fashion trends, was actually quite funny; maybe _that_ would teach Sam not to wear so many layers when he got to the surface, himself.

Entertaining as it was, Lucifer’s mind was whirring, processing Sam’s confession of wanting to touch—it wasn’t something he’d taken into account. Lucifer had wanted very much to take care of Sam in any and all ways, but he had never considered reciprocation on Sam’s part; that it might be something Sam would _want._ He spared a thought briefly on wondering how well this could go—like it or not, human shape or no, Lucifer was an archangel, and he was not created with intimacy in mind. It was possible, of course; Nephilim had existed for thousands of years. But none of those children born had ever belonged to an archangel. For an archangel to take a human mate; it simply wasn’t done.

But this—this was Sam. Lucifer had little interest in anything other than him. And, truth be told, Lucifer wasn’t one to follow the rules once he decided he didn’t like them.

If this was something Sam wanted, who was Lucifer to deny him? As Sam’s insistent fingers tried to pull Lucifer’s cotton tee (which was surprisingly comfortable, all things considered) up and off, he quirked a smile. It didn’t really matter either way; Lucifer was still the one in control, the one who had witnessed thousands of years of human behavior. Allowing a marginal loss of control was not below him so long as he was _allowing_ it.

This thought process ground to a halt when Sam returned with a vengeance, kissing Lucifer like he was drowning, welcome weight sliding into Lucifer’s lap in a decidedly pleasing manner. His newest mission was more successful, as the buttons of Lucifer’s denim were closer to a size he was familiar with, even if Sam did spare a moment to pull back and look a little perplexed at the zipper.

“Tell Azazel to educate you on the matter of human clothing,” Lucifer said, smirking at the disgruntled look Sam gave him.

“Don’t bring my father up at a time like this,” Sam snapped, figuring out the mechanics of the zip and yanking at the waistband of Lucifer’s jeans until he obligingly lifted his hips for Sam to pull them off, undershorts and all. Lucifer’s lips curled when they snagged on his heavy boots and toed them off, leaning back to rest his weight on his hands, relaxed and comfortable with his nudity, even as Sam’s flush darkened to a critical degree.

“Sam,” Lucifer crooned to his vessel, Sam sitting near his feet with his head ducked. “No need to be shy. After all, feelings of inadequacy are entirely misplaced considering our situation.”

Sam snorted quietly in response, looking up through his lashes toward the archangel. “I’m not shy, I’m just unsure of how to proceed,” he corrected, prowling forward into Lucifer’s lap and settling himself there, skin radiating heat everywhere he and Lucifer touched. Though Sam was still quite obviously aroused, he didn’t immediately move in a search for his pleasure—instead, he curled his hands into Lucifer’s hair, grip soft, and pressed their foreheads together.

The sudden show of tenderness made Lucifer hesitate, hands that had curled around Sam’s hips relaxing, stroking over his spine in a long, languid movement. A shiver followed the path of his fingers, Sam’s superheated flesh reacting to the innate chill of the archangel’s Grace and the spark that followed, Grace-infused soul reaching out for completion.

Sam took a few long moments to stare without shame, first into Lucifer’s face, and then to inspect the rest of Lucifer’s borrowed body with soft sweeps of his fingertips. Despite his familiarity with his own form, Sam seemed fascinated by Lucifer’s, despite their many similarities. He could feel the hesitation in Sam’s touches, sense the lingering doubt that made Sam pause before wrapping calloused fingers around Lucifer’s cock and giving it an experimental pull.

The sound that broke from Lucifer’s throat was not necessarily one he was proud of, but he hadn’t expected this _contact_ to feel quite so potent. His hands clenched around Sam’s waist, tight enough that they would surely leave bruises. The thought left him with a sense of selfish pride.

“Is that okay?” Sam asked, looking uncertain. It was a good look for him; confidence would be better.

“It’s good, Sam,” Lucifer replied, admiring the coltish, corded body before him. “Very good,” he admitted, matching Sam’s gesture with steadier hands, reveling in Sam’s sharp gasp.

“Together?” Sam asked breathlessly.

“Like all things,” he said, nudging Sam until his legs were not so much braced over Lucifer’s thighs, but wrapped around his hips, their lengths pressed tantalizingly together, the friction exquisite as Sam’s hips gave a sharp and involuntary thrust forward.

Sam leaned into Lucifer fully, moaning helplessly against his shoulder at the keen throb and wet pulse, body humming with a desperate sort of ache that he wasn’t entirely sure how to fulfill. His voice ratcheted up another notch when Lucifer twined their fingers together and proceeded to wrap both of their hands around their straining lengths.

Sam whined pitifully at the first wet slide, pulling a smug, if somewhat breathy chuckle from Lucifer, who lapped at the curve between neck and jaw with exploratory intent. His hips rocked upwards, meeting Sam thrust for thrust as their palms grew slippery with precome—neither of them had the experience that accompanied stamina, and the tension had been skyrocketing for years, now. There would be time for other things later.

Sam’s noises were delicious; tiny gasps, strangled moans, and the sweetest little whines as he whimpered his pleasure to Lucifer in a wordless plea for more. Lucifer huffed out something like a laugh, not of humor but of stunned pleasure, busying his mouth with marking Sam’s flesh. He guided their hands in an impatient rhythm, a slick slip of flesh around identical, aching cocks. His free hand slipped lower, palming the curve of Sam’s ass until—

Sam hissed as Lucifer’s finger rubbed over his hole, circling his rim with a certain teasing softness that made his hips twitch, uncertain of which sensations to chase. When he tried to arch back into Lucifer’s fingers, the smirking archangel moved them away, squeezing their intwined hands around their dicks to draw Sam’s attention.

“ _Lucifer,_ ” Sam growled, his free hand fisting in long locks and pulling, tilting Lucifer’s face up so Sam could smash their lips together, biting frustratedly at his tender mouth. “Stop this nonsense with your fingers or I’ll break them.”

“Tempting,” Lucifer replied sardonically.

“Don’t _tease_ me.”

“Then tell me what it is that you want.”

Sam scowled, face stained red, muttering a colorful array of multi-lingual curses as he left a punishing bite against Lucifer’s shoulder.

Lucifer grinned, all straight, sharp white teeth. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

“ _Fuck_ me,” Sam snapped, a breathy snarl made soft by his head falling back, exposing his throat involuntarily at a particularly pleasurable twist of their wrists. “With your fingers, your cock; I don’t _care_ , I just needyou _in_ me.”

Lucifer’s eyes darkened, slicking his fingers with their mingled precome, his touch damp and cool against Sam’s rim. Despite Sam’s eager and demanding words, his body grew tense; Lucifer waited, distracting Sam in the meantime with hungry kisses, sucking his tongue in time with the slow, filthy-wet jacking of their cocks. “Relax,” he murmured. “Push back against me. Let me in.” The tension in Sam’s body began to bleed out, and Lucifer rewarded him with a tight twist under the head of his dick and a slow press of his finger, working the tip in with infinite patience. “That’s right. Bear down; it’ll make this easier.”

Sam tucked his face into Lucifer’s neck, whimpering pitifully as one chilled finger slid fully inside, the sensation new and strange, and then pressed forward at a different angle. Sam’s hands spasmed, tightening around their cocks and drawing a low hiss from Lucifer. “Fuck,” Sam panted.

“Good?”

“Different,” he answered. “I’ll let you know.”

Sam decided that _good_ hardly covered it once Lucifer had two fingers pressing up into his body, curling against a specific spot that made Sam squirm and keen.

“So beautiful, Sam,” Lucifer said heatedly. “So free with your pleasure, so responsive.”

“Shut up,” Sam huffed, mouth curling with a smile. “You’re making me blush. _Oh—_ ”

The archangel smirked in response, working his fingers in tandem with his hand around Sam’s cock. The pleasure forced sound from Sam’s lungs, breathy little ‘ _ah, ah, ah_ ’s interspersed between gasps of Lucifer’s name.

“That’s it,” Lucifer murmured, focused on the ecstasy that slackened Sam’s intense expressions—his damply parted lips, his fluttering eyelids, his spasming fingers, and twitching thighs. Pulled tight as a thread and about to snap, Sam was on the brink of orgasm, and likely very clueless as to what he was in for; Lucifer, drawing arousal from Sam’s blatant rapture, wasn’t far behind.

The higher he climbed, the more firmly Sam seemed to wrap himself around Lucifer in any way possible, as if trying to draw him inside. “Lucifer, I—I feel—”

“I know; don't fight it,” the archangel replied, curling his fingers just so and pulling a strangled sound from Sam.

“What—”

“Hush.” Lucifer leaned down until Sam's hair tickled at his lips, letting his mouth trace over the shell of his ear. “Let go, Sam,” Lucifer breathed, sinking his teeth into Sam's neck.

Sam gasped, his entire body flooded with tension and something electric, biting into Lucifer's shoulder to muffle his overwhelmed sounds; sharp, stuttered moans and desperate keening only feeding into the fire that burned at Lucifer's core, spreading through his Grace as Sam spilled warm, wet, and messy between them.

What sent him over at long last was Sam and his shaky whispers against the angel's skin: “Lucifer, yes, _yes—_ ”

Lucifer had never felt anything quite like this; cresting an impossible high, the tang of Sam's blood in his mouth as his only anchor to his chosen form. Even so, he _felt_ it as his Grace fluctuated, waves of hot and cold and wind and water and all the things he hadn't felt for so very, very long—all because of Sam.

He stabilized to fingers in his hair and whispered words, soft comforts offered by the only one Lucifer would accept them from. Sam's hands made a circuit from his neck to his spine, warm and solid and so very human, but accepted and appreciated. Lucifer hadn't realized his eyes were closed as the light behind them had been so bright; when he blinked to find human sight once more, Sam made a sound like a laugh as the archangel's eyelashes tickled his skin.

Lucifer was careful as he removed his fingers from Sam's body, his hand coming to rest on Sam's hip. On his other, he found a mess shared between their intertwined fingers; Lucifer watched at first with curiosity and then with shock as Sam lifted their hands to his mouth and cleaned them with long, languid laps of his tongue. He held Lucifer's gaze all the while with half-lidded eyes, licked his lips wet and gleaming before he reached out, threading his hands into Lucifer's hair and pulling him in for a messy, salty-bitter kiss.

Sam slid back into Lucifer's lap, settling himself against the archangel's body as he finally pulled his mouth away and let it drop to Lucifer's jaw. He pressed his lips to something damp—Lucifer realized belatedly that it was Sam's own blood, and that he must have bitten harder than he was aware. He raised his hand to heal him, but Sam caught his wrist, instead directing the damp chill of Lucifer's palm to his cheek.

“Leave it,” Sam said quietly, his blood-reddened lips quirking upward as he leaned more heavily into Lucifer's touch. “I want it to show; maybe even scar. I might not be able to take it with me when I return to my—our—vessel, but, for now, I'll know it's there.”

Lucifer stared at Sam, but words seemed to have failed him. Instead, he let his thumb brush over Sam's cheekbone, observing the scratch left from earlier, and considered the sheer amount of _red_ that surfaced whenever he sought to make Sam his.

“I know,” Sam replied quietly; Lucifer hadn't said anything, but apparently he didn't have to. Sam could read him without needing the colors of his Grace—the gray of uncertainty, the green of possessiveness, and the mingling reds of the desires to _have_ and to _protect;_ the infinite other colors, bound inside the mirror image of human flesh, the vast presence of an archangel unlike any other. Sam could read these things on his face with a glance; could turn a blank expression and hollow eyes into a road map of thoughts and plans and feelings.

Sam was _human._

Sam knew what the humans could do. He was fascinated by them, and maybe rightly so—but he hadn't seen the humans the way Lucifer had. He hadn't witnessed their fierce and destructive and _pointless_ rage at things beyond their control, or their petty jealousy and murderous instinct without due cause.

But if Sam had found a new fascination with his home world and species...

Two warms hands made themselves at home, cupping Lucifer's jaw as if it was _Lucifer_ that was breakable, cradling him with all the gentle worship of a child raised in war that had found something worth fighting for. Sam drew his gaze, his expression set, but not severe, but his voice was strong and solid when he said, “I will _never_ leave you; not for anything. I'm human, but my loyalty is absolute—to _you_. Not even to your cause—just _you_. As long as you want me, and long after you don't, I know who I belong to.” Sam's face twisted and tightened with imagined pain; his arms slid around Lucifer, his face tucked into his archangel's neck. “I'm yours. I've always been yours.”

“Sam,” Lucifer said, his hands settling on Sam's bare back and rubbing comforting, concentric circles into his skin. “I will always want you.”

Sam didn't reply; just settled himself securely into Lucifer's arms and lingered, his breaths warm against the archangel's pulse point, his lips tracing the line of his neck to his shoulder, nosing at the shallow bite to Lucifer's shoulder that was already fading under the effects of the Grace beneath his skin.

“It's drawing nearer,” Lucifer said quietly, then. “The war. You'll have to be ready.”

“I know,” Sam whispered in reply.

His hand stroked down Sam's spine. “We'll be together and—”

“One,” said Sam. He clutched the archangel closer, his face buried in Lucifer's neck. “Yeah, I... I know.”

Sam didn't let up until it was time for him to leave—and when he did, his lips were last to go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. 1:11

“It's time,” Sam said the next year, nineteen-and-a-half and never feeling more young.

“Is it, now?” Lucifer asked, an unreadable expression and never feeling more ancient.

Sam nodded. “The Righteous Man arrived today.”

“Then the garrisons of Heaven won't be far behind,” the archangel replied. “I hope Azazel is prepared to handle his army.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “I'm prepared to handle mine, yes.”

Lucifer frowned, staring at Sam, whose arms were crossed over his chest. “You're leading the army?”

“They're my soldiers,” Sam reminded Lucifer, eyes narrowing just slightly as he strode past his mate into the Cage, settling down deep within. In the past year, Sam had grown into his responsibilities; he took his command of his troops very seriously, considering that it was often now he that was training them. “And I am their King. Why wouldn't it be me?”

Lucifer stood over the seated Sam, scowling; Sam, however, no longer was intimidated by that height, considering how nearly it now matched his own. “You aren't supposed to be on the front lines, Sam. Not yet.”

“They won't respect me otherwise,” Sam replied tetchily. “Besides, the angels need never know who I am. It will be enough that my army does. Azazel will be there to take my commands and relay them; to the rest, I will seem a foot soldier of no particular importance. I need to take surveillance of the coming garrison so I know what to expect. We _cannot_ allow them at the Righteous Man before he breaks.”

“Do you think they won't realize who you are, Sam, _what_ you are?” Lucifer snapped in reply. “The angels are not like demons—they aren't _stupid_. They won't overlook your strength, and once they know the way you fight, they _won't_ underestimate you and they _won't_ play fair. You cannot afford to be lost, Sam. You can't.”

“Why?” Sam asked with a bitter laugh. “Because it would mean losing your vessel? I _won't_ be stupid about this because I'm _not_ stupid, Lucifer. I will be more than fine against a team of ragtag angels that will have _already_ fought their way from the First Level to the Seventh, if they even get to the Seventh at all.”

Lucifer's lip curled with a snarl, still towering above Sam, who set his jaw and stared defiantly back. The tension stretched between them, crackling with energy, but Sam would not give in; not in this. _He_ was the Boy King. This was _his_ army, these were _his_ soldiers, and this was _his_ plan.

“You are being deliberately difficult,” Lucifer said. “You know what will happen if you fail.”

“Then I won't fail,” Sam replied with a defiant sneer.

It didn't take long for Sam to find himself with his head pulled back by Lucifer's fingers in his hair, the archangel's knees on either side of his hips, offering a sneer of his own. “Do _not_ ,” Lucifer commanded darkly. “Do _not_ be this way, Samuel, not today. Not when it may be a century or more until I see you again. Do not leave _this_ for me to remember you by.”

And though Sam itched for a fight, he relented; there was truth in those words, and it might very well be a long time—for Lucifer, at least—before they would see each other. This wasn't the impression Sam wanted to leave behind.

Instead of words, he simply dropped his head back into Lucifer's hold, a silent gesture of submission and assent to drop the matter. Lucifer accepted this in the slackening of his grip on Sam's hair and the slow brush of his mouth over Sam's pulse. “The Righteous Man,” Lucifer said quietly, a peace offering. “What do you know about him?”

“Not much,” Sam replied simply with a slight shrug. “His name is Dean Winchester.”

Lucifer's hands tightened in Sam's hair again, but only for a moment before he released Sam completely. “Is that so?”

Sam frowned as Lucifer shifted back slightly, the archangel's head cocked to the side as he stared at his vessel. “Is that bad? Did I do something wrong?”

“I was under the impression it was meant to be John Winchester,” Lucifer replied, expression unreadable.

Sam shrugged a little, helplessly. “It was. We _had_ John, but barely for a few months before the other one came along. He _begged_ to take John's place, and, well.” Sam let out a sigh. “Alastair was making little progress with John, so I thought it might be best to exchange them. Already the new one screams louder than John ever did.” Sam frowned, looking at the archangel with widening eyes. “Did I... did I mess it up?”

“No,” Lucifer replied simply, soothing Sam with gentle fingers pressing against his temples. “As I told Azazel, it matters not which Winchester; just that it's one of their bloodline.”

“What is their significance?” Sam asked, curious. “Why must it be a Winchester?”

Something shifted in Lucifer's expression, but his hands remained gentle as they rubbed the tension from Sam's weary mind. “They're descended from a very old and very powerful line of Holy blood, dating back to Cain and Abel. Their family is a family of Hunters—not hunters of animals, but hunters of monsters.”

Sam nodded in understanding. “The things I've studied—they hunt those?”

“Those and more,” Lucifer agreed. “There's a number of factors that tie in to what makes the Winchesters important—the mother, Mary, a good and faithful woman; the father, John, who is quick to anger; the son, Dean, who is the eldest and raised to fight like a warrior. The Winchesters also lost a son when Dean was very small, leaving him the elder brother to an absent child.”

“What happened to the second son?” Sam asked.

Lucifer's hands slid into Sam's hair, and before Sam knew it, his lips were parted to a demanding tongue, giving as good as he got. “What indeed,” Lucifer replied against Sam's lips. “That doesn't matter. What matters is Dean, and what his presence will mean for you.”

Sam blinked as Lucifer shifted away again, turning as Lucifer settled across from him instead. “What do you mean?”

“Dean,” Lucifer said with a frown. “He's—if it were John, it would have taken much longer to break him—maybe even eternity. But Dean; Dean will break within a century, but Heaven will fight all the more to reclaim his soul because of his status.”

“And what is that status?”

Lucifer scowled. “Dean is Michael's true vessel.”

Sam stared uncomprehendingly at Lucifer for a long while before, “Michael? As in, the archangel Michael? Your older brother and archangel archenemy?”

“The very same,” Lucifer sneered, looking away from Sam and out toward the bars of the Cage. “And if Dean is here, that means that Heaven will be close behind and in pursuit. Though there is no threat on Earth at the moment, Heaven guards archangel vessels jealously.”

“So why weren't they guarding me?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrows just slightly.

Lucifer turned back to Sam with a fierce and sharp grin. “I'm very sure they tried, Sam—but they could never keep you away from me. I was very careful with you—the angels don't even know that you're gone.” At Sam's surprised look, he continued, “Your body is still alive, and so Heaven is unaware that anything is wrong. But the moment you were to die, they would know. That's the reason I want you away from the angels, Sam—if they were to find out your soul was here, considering that you are _my_ vessel, they might even _destroy_ your body. They would never dare do so with your soul inside, but without—without, you are but a body of flesh and bone. And, as I expect, your body is not just that, but occupied by a demon.”

Sam's response to _that_ was immediate and violent, letting out a guttural growl. _“What?”_

“A body left motionless would atrophy,” Lucifer replied. “It would be worthless to you and to me. Since you were a child, a demon has occupied your body, trained by Azazel when he is on the surface; aiding your body to grow in all the ways it needs, so when you slip back inside, it will be ready for you and all you can do.”

“I do not want a _demon_ in _my_ vessel when _I_ can't even be,” Sam snarled.

“See the logic, Sam—” Lucifer argued, but Sam cut him off.

“I _do_ , but that doesn't mean I _like_ it.” His lip curled in an admirable imitation of Azazel's most scathing sneer. “No one else should wear our vessel but us, no matter their purpose.”

Though Lucifer said nothing else about the parasite wearing Sam's true skin, the look on his face seemed to agree. “Soon enough, it _will_ be you.”

“Never soon enough,” Sam sighed, reaching out to trace over Lucifer's scarred fingers, slipping his own into the perfect spaces between. “The sooner I'm free, the sooner you'll be free.”

Lucifer looked at Sam contemplatively. “And the sooner you'll be forced to face violence and death—including the deaths of your family.”

Sam looked away. “Lilith knows her role. I will regret it, but it must be done. Her death will not be in vain.”

Silence lingered, Sam putting on the facade of strength, but his feelings betrayed him in the manner with which he clutched at Lucifer's hand. The archangel in turn pretended not to notice, but idly let his thumb trace comforting patterns into Sam's skin.

Sam sighed. “I've been waiting for this war for my whole life, but I suddenly feel so unprepared.”

“As do most soldiers before they march into battle,” Lucifer replied simply. “But you're more than a soldier; you are Hell's King. You fight for your kingdom, for your family—for your freedom, and for mine. Never have I had to rely on anyone else for the sake of my life, but I would rely and rely again on you, Sam. In this matter, you are my champion—in all else, I will endeavor to be yours.”

Sam squeezed his hand in response, meeting Lucifer's eyes steadily. “I will not fail you.”

“I believe you,” Lucifer said.

Sam smiled just a little, eyes soft. “Thanks.”

“There's no need to thank me,” Lucifer deflected, touching his fingertips to Sam's lips, watching with interest as they parted under the gentle pressure. “You deserve my confidence. You've endured over two millennia in Hell, and in that time, you've made it your own. You're strong, Sam, and I know you won't let me down. You will set me free.” Lucifer traced the seam of Sam's mouth. “And then we'll be together, finally.”

Sam lowered his eyes, letting his lips ghost over the pad of Lucifer's finger in a kiss. “We'll be one; one person... one body.” Sam sighed, reaching out to take hold of the archangel's hand in both of his, pressing a kiss against Lucifer's palm before manually curling long fingers closed. He leaned his cheek against chilled skin, the gesture filled with longing.

Lucifer frowned. “You're upset about this.”

Sam shrugged slightly, letting his lips follow the ridges of Lucifer's knuckles, over and back again. “Not upset. Just... sad, a little. We won't ever be like this again. We'll be complete, yes—but I'll never be able to...” Sam trailed off into silence, sighing and meeting Lucifer's unreadable gaze. “I'm not upset. I knew this would happen. But I'll miss this. Just... _this._ ” He lightly placed a kiss at Lucifer's pulse-point before releasing the captive hand. “I'm regressing to my childish need for affection; I apologize.”

Lucifer threaded his hand into Sam's hair, tugging him forward, space parting around them until Sam sat at his feet, long limbs folded together, head resting on Lucifer's knee. Sam would usually find such things to be far below his dignity, but now, knowing he might never get another chance, he allowed himself the weakness. Sam's eyes slipped shut in peaceful, innocent bliss, savoring the feeling of Lucifer's fingers smoothing his bangs back from his face with infinite care.

“It isn't childish to require kindness and care, Sam; but you were never truly a child, so this was one thing you never learned.” Lucifer's voice was low and smooth, a balm to all the places that ached in Sam's soul. “It's true; when you are my vessel, we won't be able to be like this—not physically. But emotionally, _spiritually,_ I will always be with you. We will always be together, our minds as one. There will be intimacy in that—and I promise you, Sam, you will never feel alone.”

Sam's fingers curled in the leg of Lucifer's strange, scratchy, blue-tinted trousers (and really, what kind of trousers were those? They were odd). He turned his cheek into the fabric and exhaled softly, eyes opening to look up at Lucifer with barely-hidden adoration. Though Sam was supposed to have a handle on his feelings—and _did_ , whenever the archangel was not involved—being around Lucifer often made him feel like he was a silly, stupid, so-very- _young_ boy again, bursting from the inside out if he couldn't say what was on his mind. Sam was just so _small_ compared to Lucifer, so _insignificant_ ; he would lay down his life for Lucifer in a heartbeat if Lucifer ever asked. For now, Sam was needed; but if the day ever came that he was not, he would give all he was to protect this creature that allowed Sam close.

“Thank you,” Sam whispered, treasuring these, his last moments with Lucifer for many days or months or _years_ to come. “Just—thank you.”

Lucifer leaned down, tilting Sam's face up with the barest pressure, and met him in the middle with a soft, burning kiss. “Do not thank me for giving what was always yours to have, Sam,” Lucifer replied. “You will not be the only one to remember these moments. In the stretch of eternity, days often lose meaning for me—but never these days I have spent in your company. I hold them as dearly as I do you.” Lucifer trailed off, one hand stroking obsessively over the curve of Sam's cheek before coming to rest at his jaw. “I am not a creature of kindness, nor affection. My existence serves one purpose, and that is to _win_ , or die trying. I've drawn upon an ancient sort of rage, something you likely could never understand, Sam; not as a human, and one as unfailingly kind as you are, even still. My purpose brings me clarity— _light_. It is the purpose of my name; the Morning Star, the Light-Bringer. I may indeed bring light, but I have long since lived in darkness, waiting—for you. And now you are here, and I have my clarity at last.” Lucifer's eyes were serious, focused. “It will be inexplicably difficult for me to allow you to leave here, Sam, even knowing it will bring me freedom. Your presence brings me peace, and to let you go so easily—every year, the urge to keep you with me grows stronger. Knowing that you will walk away from this place for the last time in only a few hours...”

Sam suddenly found himself staring up into Lucifer's face, the archangel standing and towering over him, hands cupping Sam's face. Sam swallowed, the motion feeling tight, exposed as his throat was.

“Never again, Sam,” Lucifer vowed, fingers curling around Sam's cheekbones. “Once I am free, I will never let you go.”

In that moment, with his heart steadily working its way up his throat, Sam believed him.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam left the Cage with his hands wrapped around the bars, meeting Lucifer's burning kiss between the gaps. There were no words said between them; just a shared look of absolute conviction. Sam turned, then, and worked his way up the sulfuric, craggy cliffs that surrounded the Cage from all sides. When he reached the top, he turned just in time to see the true form of Lucifer burst free—a mass of excruciating light and furious sound, suddenly taking up all the empty space that stretched on for miles around them when they shared their human form.

That Cage was always meant to fit Lucifer. It was never meant to fit Sam.

It was Heaven's greatest mistake.

And Sam would make sure they knew it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

End of Part One

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, this is the final chapter of Part One! 
> 
> I'm intending to take a week off to get a handle on my new semester's college work and write some more TBK before I start posting Part Two. I'm sure it'll go by quickly for all of us (too quickly, I'm falling behind)! Part Two will focus on the Winchesters' side of things, so those of you wishing for more, pure Samifer will have to wait a while (sorry!). But it'll be important to understand both sides of the story later on. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! See you on February 12th! :)


	12. 2:1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the start of Part Two, picking up with the Winchester side of things. It'll be a while yet until we get to any actual interaction between the boys, but we'll get there. The Winchester history is just as important. 
> 
> Thanks to those of you who have stuck around thus far! I hope you enjoy what's yet to come.

* * *

 

 

  


 

 

Dean Winchester was a normal boy.

He liked airplanes and construction trucks made of plastic; he liked army guys and foam footballs. He liked playing with his little brother Sam, even if Sam drooled on everything. That was okay—Dean forgave him. Little brothers are supposed to be gooey. Mommy said so.

One morning he woke up to his father shaking his shoulders—it felt funny.

“Dean,” his Daddy said urgently. “Dean, wake up!”

Dean blearily blinked his eyes open with all the focus of a bleary four-year-old. “Daddy?”

He hadn't ever seen his Daddy look this scary before. “Dean, did you take Sammy out of his crib?”

Dean shook his head.

“Are you sure, Dean?”

Dean nodded. “Where's Sammy?”

John's face crumpled. From another room, Dean could hear someone crying.

Dean was very awake, now.

“He's gone, Dean,” John said. “Sammy's gone.”

 

* * *

 

 

John Winchester was baffled.

He checked the front door, and it was locked; so was Sam's window. There was no sign that anyone had gotten into the house, _anywhere_ , so his first reaction was to think that maybe Dean had taken Sam out. That would be fine. At this point, he wouldn't even be mad. Just relieved.

He shook Dean awake, but his son was clueless. John felt his last reserves of hope crumbling away; Sam would never have been able to get out of the crib by himself. He couldn't even walk yet, couldn't even stand.

But he was gone.

How could he be gone?

He could hardly look at Mary, who was standing over their son's empty crib with tears in her eyes. Over and over, she just kept saying, “Not this. Not my Sam.”

It was John who called the police—after all, the news always said that the first forty-eight hours were the most precious in a missing person's investigation, especially in those of children. Maybe they would be able to find him. Maybe they could save his son.

Why steal an infant, anyway?

Who could have done this?

 

* * *

 

 

Mary Winchester was retired.

Sure, she still worked weekends as a secretary at the hospital, but she was sure those were going to have to come to a close. She wouldn't have time for that anymore.

She had hoped so much that she could just _stay retired_. It was the hardest thing in the world to ignore the strange deaths she always read about in the papers, the ones John commented on during idle mornings, bemused at the strange things that happened. Her husband, her John—sweet, well-meaning, clueless John.

He had no idea of the things that were out there.

Mary knew from the second she found traces of sulfur on the lining of Sam's rumpled sheets; _a demon_. A demon had taken her youngest son. But _why?_

Was it one that she had banished, escaped to take revenge? If it was, why wouldn't they have made an example out of it? Horrible as it was to think about, she couldn't imagine a demon seeking retribution simply in _taking_ her child.

How would they have found the house, anyway? She had all sorts of banishing runes scratched into the woodwork, cornerstones set at the edges of the property, protective sigils sewn inside Sam's baby blanket. She'd kept a close watch out for omens, even after all this time. Her journal was still hidden in a secret safe in the wall downstairs, behind the refrigerator—in case of emergency, she'd always reasoned. And the kitchen was one place that John would never dare mess with; Mary let him have his fun with modifications, but she _liked her kitchen the way it was, and he wasn't going to put his paws on it, or he wasn't going to eat._

What would she do if she told him the truth? Think she was crazy, probably. Maybe even try to take Dean away from her, or accuse her of somehow being involved with Sam's disappearance.

She couldn't tell him, then. She would just have to do this herself.

She was going to get her son back.

Those demonic sons of bitches didn't know who they were messing with in Mary Winchester.

 

* * *

 

 

That first week, Mary disappeared. Well, not so much _disappeared_ as _left a note saying she'd be back on the backwards fridge._

Seriously, how had she even moved that thing? It must've weighed at least three hundred pounds. John had been impressed, maybe a little nervous to think his wife could bench more than he could. Maybe it was just the adrenaline and motherly instincts. Yeah, that had to be it. After all, why else would she move the fridge for no reason, leaving only pipes and a blank wall exposed?

John had been more than a little heartbroken—he'd lost his son, and now his wife was gone—but she had to be coming back. Mary never would have left Dean, never. She probably just needed some time alone to deal, maybe to visit her cousin—Gretchen? Grace? He just knew that Mary had mentioned a cousin having a child a few months ago, around the same time as Sammy was born.

It was okay if Mary needed time. John was going to be a good husband. He didn't so much as touch the bottle while she was gone, despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than a good, hard drink. He had Dean to look after.

He and Dean stayed up late in the living room, watching children's movies and falling asleep in a tangle of blankets on the floor. John couldn't take an eye off of him; he was silently terrified that whatever had taken Sammy would come back for Dean. He just couldn't bear to lose them both.

Harder still was dealing with Dean and his many questions— _where's Sammy, Daddy? Where did he go? When is he coming back? Daddy, where's Mommy?_

John couldn't answer. Truth to be told, he didn't know any more than his four-year-old son.

Dean had woken up one morning to find himself an only child. John could only hope that he wouldn't wake up for the rest of his life and find himself a single parent.

 

* * *

 

 

Mary knocked on Grace's door at 3AM, a long way away from her home in Lawrence, Kansas. Grace looked like she could just about slap her younger cousin for waking her up now that her daughter, Gwen, was finally asleep—at least, until Mary had told her that Sam had been taken.

“What d'ya mean, taken?” Grace asked, pouring Mary a mug of tea—and handing over a side-belt of holy water. Mary downed it without so much as blinking, then took the mug gratefully.

“I mean _taken_ ,” Mary replied. “I found sulfur in the crib.”

Grace frowned. “But Mary, that just don't make _sense_ ,” she said. “For a demon to take your baby, after fighting through all those wards I helped you set—and just to _take_ him? I mean, why? It ain't revenge, not something like that.”

Mary took a sip of tea, wincing as the peppermint brew burned her upper lip. “I know that, but that's about all I _do_ know. I was hoping you could help.”

Grace sighed, crossing her arms over her chest, brunette hair tangled around her ears and stuck in the collar of her wrinkled, purple bathrobe. “Mary, I—I want to help. But I've got Frank, and now we have Gwen—I'm sorry. I can't just up and leave my family. Neither should you.”

Mary's mug hit the table with a _thud._ “What exactly are you trying to say to me?”

Grace shrugged helplessly. “Go _home_ , Mary. Any demon that could break through those wards is one big, bad bastard. It could have killed y'all, but it didn't. You've still got John and Dean—don't forget how important they are. You've still got a family that needs you. You can't afford to be runnin' off into the great beyond in your minivan with a shotgun full o' salt.”

Mary stared at her, at a loss for words. The fury that bubbled in her chest, the thought that she should just let go of Sam and try to _forget—_

“Mary, you still got one baby,” Grace said, tiredly rubbing at her eyes. “If you run off and leave him, you'll have none. You want my advice—call a lady; Missouri Mosely. She'll help you beef up your wards. She's a psychic; real deal, too. Do what you will, but don't you dare leave your Johnny-boy with your baby. Man couldn't make a bowl o' oats without you. Go home. Be with your family. Call Missouri. I hate to say it, Mer, but if a demon came into your home to take your baby and didn't do nothin' else, your Sammy's probably as good as gone.”

Mary stood, stomach rolling with sickness. “Thanks for the tea,” she said, and she left.

She didn't talk to Grace again for a very long time.

 

* * *

 

 

She called Missouri; Mary was suspicious of psychics, so she went to Missouri instead of allowing Missouri to come to her. In under an hour, Missouri was rubbing her back as she cried, haunted by the newly-surfaced memory of bile-yellow eyes.

She couldn't imagine how she'd forgotten, but she had; blocked it out, even, perhaps. But because of her oversight, Sam was gone, and it was purely Mary's fault for making that stupid deal.

But the demon had promised Sam would be safe.

Mary's insides felt cold as she remembered the one basic truth of hunting— _demons lie._

Missouri couldn't get a read on Sam. Mary wasn't surprised, now that she knew what was responsible. It didn't mean she would be any less prepared—demons could be tracked. They could be found. And she _would_ find the bastard.

They amped up the wards; John never knew. Mary passed Missouri off as an old friend of her family.

Dean learned to call Missouri 'Aunt Mo'. John learned not to sneer at the thought of psychics after Missouri gave him a sharp reprimand for his internal ridicule— _You think my gifts are funny, boy? Don't you lie to me, I can see right into your brain, Mr. Military; a Marine, huh? Figures, y'all are skeptical because you've lost your hope in something greater. Don't look at me like that, John Winchester, now go get me a cuppa while dear Mary shows me the house_ —but meeting Missouri was a good first step toward _the life_. Mary took comfort in knowing she had an ally, even if Missouri could find no trace of Sam. Her other gifts were invaluable in the search for Mary's youngest.

Mary would see her baby again. Somewhere in her gut, she just knew it.

Until then, she would do what she could to make her family prepared.

Something big was coming. Mary didn't know what, or when, or even where or why. But it was.

And her boys would be ready.

 

 

 

 


	13. 2:2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a significant amount of violence in this chapter, and a rather steep cliffhanger at the end. Ye be warned; it won't be pretty.

Mary never quite got over the loss of Sam.

John, too, lingered over the thought of his second son, but he found solace in being the best father he could be for Dean. From picking up extra shifts at the garage to surprise Dean with that new bike he'd been pining away for; from bringing Dean in to work with him and his old friend Mike Guenther— _Unc'a Mikey,_ Dean called him—on the old junk cars to teach him the value of work; to somehow ending up being _that dad_ that coached Dean's T-ball team, John did all he could.

But Mary—John couldn't explain it, really, but she just got... _cold_. She was still kind and sweet to John and Dean, but there was always a particularly harsh look she wore whenever she thought John wouldn't notice. She started carrying around this odd little book that looked older than it should, over-stuffed with sticky notes and business cards that would fall out every so often. They only ever said a name and a number—never anything more, usually scrawled on the back of cards for gun shops and taxidermists. John asked about them once and only once—Mary had sworn that they were the names of her Dad's old friends and some distant family members, and that after Sam was gone, she realized how important family really was.

John accepted that—after all, Mary _did_ spend more time on the phone these days, teary-eyed while sitting at the kitchen counter, her hand covering the mouthpiece of the rotary as she whispered into it. Sometimes she spent her time fuming, fierce-looking as she stared out the window from Sam's nursery, muttering sharply under her breath, like a general used to giving commands. John had never realized that Mary being an army wife had been such an influence on her; but if this was how she coped, it wasn't his place to tell her she was wrong. Mary would come around, eventually.

Even if she didn't, at least she was _home._

However, she did get incredibly protective of Dean; not like most parents, that wanted to know all but the Social Security Numbers of their children's playmates, but in a more practical way. As soon as Dean turned five, the minimum age for admission, Mary enrolled him in self-defense courses, participating in the parent-child classes and catching on with startling ease. She told the instructor (and John) that it was due to taking self-defense classes all through her teenage years— _my Dad always made sure I could take care of myself—_ and that she must have more muscle memory than she thought.

(The instructor told John once that he had never seen anything quite like her fighting style; and that not only was she excelling, she was _teaching_ the others, including the man himself.)

Dean's limitless energy came in handy, and he took to the forms surprisingly well. Of course, Mary did spend a great deal of her free time practicing with him; Dean was moving up the ranks in no time at all. She managed to convince John that fixing up the basement was a fantastic idea (despite the fact that John would be the one doing all of the work), and that investing in sturdy targets, including a suspended punching bag, would be beneficial to Dean physically and emotionally.

It didn't seem to matter that Dean was seven at the time. Mary was talented at making people think what she wanted them to. She even made John think the whole thing was his idea. And if it was Mary that ended up using the equipment most, well, she was _trying to get back in shape, anyway_.

When the punching bag split, spilling sand everywhere, it was obviously due to faulty equipment.

 

* * *

 

 

Mary had warded her home to the nines, but there were two things she had not accounted for: the first was her newly-turned-seven-year-old son and his tearing through the house; the second was a break-in of entirely human origin.

It happened during the sweltering summer months, a humid night in July, the air conditioners working overtime to keep the house somewhere below the boiling point. Though John (and Dean) were dead to the world, Mary had become restless with the heat and wandered into Sammy's dusty nursery (everything still in place as it had been for three years, because Mary was not nearly ready to let go of Sam, and letting go of this room would be like losing him entirely). The window over the crib was damp with condensation, despite the fact that this particular window was free of obstruction and closed. Mary traced concentric circles and nonsense patterns into the water and watched as it dripped down toward the windowsill.

And then from below— _crash_. Mary's spine went ramrod straight in response, her head tilted to listen. For a moment, she considered that something had fallen off the counter, which was very possible, but—footsteps, crunching over shards of glass. She'd know that sound anywhere, as she had heard it a thousand times during her hunting days.

Someone was in her house.

In a nightgown as she was, Mary was not dressed to combat effectively—but, no. Fighting couldn't be her first priority, ground into her instincts as it had been. She had to protect her boys first.

Mary crept on silent feet toward Dean's room, glad that she'd left his painfully squeaky door open to let in the cold air before she'd put him to bed. She crouched over him, placing one hand over his mouth, the other shaking his shoulder lightly, praising whatever gods might be that Dean had been in a somewhat-fitful sleep and had woken up quickly.

Mary signaled for him to be silent, watching as Dean's face twisted at hearing the sounds from below—his eyes widened, comically surprised and luminously green, even in the dark. She felt a pang of sympathy for her son when fear flooded his expression; the luxury of childhood innocence had already fled for Mary when she was his age.

Motioning for Dean to follow, they both tiptoed to the doorway, freezing to listen to the shuffling downstairs—they didn't seem very interested in coming upstairs as of yet, which led Mary to think they were common burglars. Troublesome, but manageable, even if she was a little out of practice. She and Dean crept the few short feet down the hall to Mary's room, careful of the familiar squeaky spots on the floor. They managed to get into the room without incident, even though Dean still looked panicky and terrified. Mary spared a moment to brush her hand through his hair comfortingly, giving him a reassuring look and earning a painfully trusting look in return.

“Get under the bed, Dean,” Mary whispered, moving to John's side and waking him up much the same as she had her son. John's reaction, though, was much more immediate—he jolted awake, one hand snapping out in protective reflex. Mary caught his wrist in her grasp, not having time to feel sympathy for the confusion and sudden apologetic horror in John's face. She shook her head once, tersely; John frowned as Mary removed her hand from covering his mouth, but when another round of shuffling started downstairs, his head snapped toward the noise and he listened in very much the same way.

“Dean,” Mary whispered as quietly as she could manage. “I want you to stay under the bed, okay? No matter what you hear, you need to stay there. Do you understand?” She ducked her head to peer underneath the bed frame just in time to see her son's shaky nod. “Good boy. Don't be afraid, baby. Angels are watching over you.”

Dean nodded again—he was a tough little soldier, just like his daddy. Mary's heart ached to know that after this night, Dean would likely never sleep quite as soundly ever again.

“Mary, you need to get under there with him,” John whispered back sharply. “I can handle this, and I don't want you getting hurt. Stay here and call 911.”

“With what phone, John?” Mary hissed in return. “We never put one in upstairs, there's only the one in the kitchen. If we want help, that's where we have to get to.”

John's jaw clenched. “Mary—”

“Don't you _'Mary'_ me, mister,” she replied, looking him dead in the eyes, teeth set. “You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

Of all the moments to stare each other down, this was probably the most ill-timed. However, that didn't mean they were going to back down. John's eyes scanned Mary's face, his frown growing stronger until there were deep lines etched into his forehead and a vein twitching at his temple. “You stay behind me at all times, you got me?”

Mary didn't answer, but John didn't care. The man ducked his head down to take a long look at his son. “Dean, if you hear any really loud noises, or if you hear them start to come up here, I want you to climb out the window and down the lattice on the side of the house. Run over to the neighbors' and get help. Okay?”

Dean's lips trembled, but he nodded. “I love you,” Dean whispered.

“We love you, too, baby,” Mary answered, reaching under the bed to brush her fingers over her son's cheek. “So much. Stay safe.”

“Let's go,” John hissed, and Mary nodded, following as he stood and crept to the doorway and down the hall.

At the top of the stairs, the noises from below were even louder; Mary didn't think whoever had broken in was _trying_ to be subtle. It was honestly a slap in the face that she'd worked so hard on warding her whole house from demons, but something so simple and stupid as a human could break in, too. _If only there were banishing sigils for idiots._

“Mary, I don't know what's been goin' on with you lately,” John said quietly. “But don't go doing any damn-fool things and getting yourself killed. Dean needs you—so do I.”

“It'll take more than some sloppy thief to kill me, John,” Mary replied, just on the line of scathing. “And damn right, you need me. Now, let's go.”

They tiptoed down the stairs, keeping to the edges where they were attached to the wall—less likely to make noise, plus Mary and John were familiar with the trick steps in their own home, which were easily skipped. However, it didn't seem to matter; whoever was downstairs was like a bull in a china cabinet, and Mary doubted they could hear anything that wasn't crawling into their ears.

Peering around the threshold into the living room, one dark-clad figure was clumsily pawing at the television. A window across the room was broken; most likely the point of entry, as the front door had been closed. John glanced at his wife, prepared to send her back upstairs, but Mary didn't look the slightest bit afraid. In fact, she didn't look afraid at all—just irritated and grumpy, as if the only problem here wasn't that someone had broken into her home, but that someone had woken her up from a night's sleep.

Why _had_ she been awake?

Mary gave him a sharp look—yeah, now probably wasn't the time.

John edged into the room on quiet feet, arms raised and ready to grab the man, when—

“Freeze!”

He stopped, wide-eyed, staring at the man who had come in from the kitchen, a gun in hand and pointed directly at John.

“Get on your knees,” the man hissed through a cliché black mask.

Under any other circumstances, Mary might have laughed. Now, she grit her teeth. Of course there were two—she was out of practice and dull. _Never assume there's only one, Mer, that's Rule Number One._

John's jaw was set, glancing toward the doorway, which Mary had shrunk back around; upon not seeing her, he slowly and grudgingly complied. His hands were held up, fingers spread and palms damp, a placating gesture to an undeserving coward hiding behind a gun. In the other room, Mary waited to listen, ready to lash out.

“Where's yer family, guy?” The gun-holder asked.

“Away,” John answered tersely, scathing; not nearly as afraid as the cowards wanted him, probably, but John was a soldier. “My wife and son are with her parents for the weekend.” _Lie_. “It's her mom's birthday,” _lie,_ “and her sister just had a baby.” _Lie._

“Why aren'tcha with 'em?”

“My boss went to Florida with his family; I'm working the weekend. Those new car-installed air conditioners keep breaking—people run them down like crazy and it's the hottest summer of the decade. You do the math.”

_What a liar,_ Mary thought, almost-fond. If she couldn't regularly read him like a book, she might almost be worried about the fluidity of his untruths—but Mary knew all of his tells. To her, he never even _tried_ to lie, and he was better for it.

The gun-holder made a disbelieving noise, despite the steadiness in John's voice. “Check upstairs,” he grunted to his partner. “Don't take long; it'll be obvious if they're not there.” Mary tensed, only hoping that Dean could stay silent and that the man sent upstairs was really as dull as he looked.

“What if there's someone?”

“Then ya bring 'em down here,” Gun-holder said. “And I'll deal with 'em.”

Mary slipped around the corner as Dull shuffled into the entryway and up the stairs. She watched, a snarl on her lips, but if she tried to follow now, she knew she would be seen. All she could do was wait—or she could act.

Her safe in the false wall behind the fridge was inaccessible; the noise would draw too much attention. She could always try to get downstairs to her shotguns stored in the back corner of the tiled ceiling, but that might take too long. There were knives in the kitchen, but the drawer squeaked, and kitchen knives were clumsy when it came to defense.

But there was John's handgun—in the study, disassembled, bullets hidden in the locked file cabinet.

It was possible.

With hunter's steps, she stalked through the hallway to John's study around the corner, where he kept all his files from the garage and his paperwork from the military. It was less of a study and more of a retreat, to be honest, but Mary had never begrudged him of his space; not when she had enough hidden spaces around their home that she nearly felt guilty for not informing him of the loss of square-footage. Now, she was only glad that she could find any weapon within a mile's radius on demand; she was sure that John didn't even realize Mary knew it existed.

She snuck into the study, ears keen on the footsteps upstairs as she rolled open the drawer and extracted the individually cloth-wrapped pieces of John's gun—a Colt M1911A1, standard military-issue. It was a good gun; sturdy, functional, reliable. (In a situation like this, she wasn't picky, but she preferred Taurus models on a good day—though she'd only been able to pick them up after her father's death, God rest his soul. He would turn in his grave if he ever knew that Mary preferred Taurus over Colt. A salt-and-burn might actually be required to put him to rest if he'd ever known that Mary's favorite gun was the Taurus PT92, brushed-nickel finish with pearl grips; _a gun doesn't need to be flashy, Mer, it needs to get the job done.)_ She unwrapped the pieces carefully and slotted them together—barrel, slide, recoil spring guide, slide-stop, barrel bushing, magazine— _empty_ magazine.

Quickly and quietly as she was able ( _considerably_ ), Mary picked the lock on the filing cabinet with a wayward paperclip found on the floor (idly, she noted that she would have to talk to John about that later; those damn things messed up her vacuum). John's hiding place was not exactly subtle, but she gave him credit for trying—and her own silent thanks. Her fingers were steady as she filled the magazine; seven cartridges, one in the chamber. Eight shots. They would be more than enough.

She clicked the safety off, adjusting to the weight in her hands, the familiar feeling of cold metal and rushing adrenaline—she'd never realized how much she missed a proper gun, and the softening of her calluses was disconcerting, as if she had unexpectedly lost one of her most memorable scars. She would be taking her Taurus out of storage after this; she wasn't sure how she'd explain the lost time to John, but she could decide that later. First, she had to protect her family.

Knees bent and jaw set, she emerged with much greater confidence, stalking forward with slow, silent steps—just in time to hear clumsy footsteps start down the stairs; she pressed her back to the wall, hidden around the corner from the living room, just out of sight.

“No dice,” grunted Clumsy. “No kid, no woman, just like he said.”

“Didja check under the beds?” Gun-holder asked impatiently.

Mary held her breath and readied herself to act.

“Yeah,” Clumsy said. “Closets, too. Nothing.”

Mary's relief and worry swamped her in equal measures. Where had Dean gone? From the office, she would have heard him climb down the lattice; so where had he disappeared to?

She could worry about it later.

“I _told_ you they were gone,” John snapped, voice strong and steady and just the right amount of scathing.

“Shut up, guy,” Gun-holder demanded, a quiet noise the only indication of movement—a slight, metallic click. “Smug bastard; think yer so smart. How 'bout I put a bullet in you right now; leave somethin' nice for yer family to come home to, huh?”

Clumsy chimed in with an ugly chortle.

“Huh?” Gun-holder insisted. “What d'ya think, guy? Sounds good, right?”

“Go to hell,” John spat.

“Yer a rude fucker,” Gun-holder snarled, a solid _thunk_ the only indication of the gun making contact with John's skull. “Bet yer wife wouldn't even miss ya.”

Mary sneered, her temper peaked—she whirled around the corner, finger on the trigger, a split second to observe Gun-holder's stance; sloppy, overconfident, only one hand on his gun. Clumsy was leaning against the far wall, content to look on—unarmed, slant of the shoulders indicated left-handed. She fired one shot into Gun-holder's dominant shoulder, the man yelling out in sharp pain, dropping the weapon onto the carpet.

“Mary, what the _hell_ —” John exclaimed, wide-eyed.

“ _John_ ,” Mary interrupted. “The _gun_.”

John snatched up the fallen pistol without any more prompting, but he still stared at Mary like he'd seen a ghost as he leveled the barrel on the other, uninjured robber.

“Now,” Mary continued. “Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my house?”

“Ya _shot_ me!” suddenly-disarmed shouted. “Ya crazy bitch!”

“Shut up,” Mary drawled in exasperation. “You broke into my house and threatened my family; what did you expect me to do? Sit around and sob into my knitting?”

“I'll getcha arrested!”

Mary's sneer evolved into something feral in its condescending manner. “That's assuming you're going to see anything outside of this room, you pompous pond scum.”

Disarmed's eyes widened behind his mask; Clumsy stumbled and fell as John gestured him into the center of the room.

“Mary,” John hissed. “What the hell are you doing? We can't kill these men.”

Mary ignored him. “Who sent you here?”

The men blinked. “Sent?” asked Clumsy.

“No one sent us,” Disarmed snapped.

“Mary, go call the cops!” John cut in.

“Are you sure?” Mary asked, taking a step closer to the bleeding man, who flinched back. “Do you want to rethink that? You really don't want to be lying to me.”

“Mary!”

“John, shut _up!_ ”

John stared at her, swallowing loud enough that Mary could hear the contraction of his throat.

“You're gonna have to trust me on this, John,” Mary said impatiently, eyes raptly focused on the robbers. “My family; we're an old family. We have enemies. If these two were sent by someone—” _or something,_ she thought—“then I need to know.”

John nodded slowly, expression tight—he clearly didn't like it, but he wouldn't fight. He was accepting that he didn't have all of the necessary information—good. Mary could work with that.

“Now, who in the hell sent you?” Let them make what they could of that.

However, their faces didn't change; not obviously. There was no paling, no flinching; if these men had been manipulated by something, it was likely they had no idea it was anything _other_ that gave them their marching orders.

“We, uh,” Clumsy started. “There was a guy, weren't there?”

“What?” Disarmed snapped, looking at his partner. “What guy? Shut up, ya dumbass! There was no guy.”

“Shut your mouth,” Mary commanded, turning her gaze to Clumsy. “Well, go on, then. Tell me.”

“He was a smallish guy,” Clumsy said slowly, eyes flickering to either side as if he were trying hard to remember something just out of his reach. “Weird guy. Saw us in the bar—knew we was lookin' for a job, needed quick cash. He done told us about this street; ' _blue house_ ,' he said. ' _Been round them parts; ain't no one ever there. Travelin'._ _Saw some nice stuff inside.'_ I thought it were weird that he be tellin' us about such an easy mark. Why not take it fer himself, yanno? But we checked it out; good house, nice stuff. Didn't see no one but a nice car. Figured it might be good. But the guy; I dunno, got harder to think of his face? Must'a drugged us, right? Must'a.”

“The man,” Mary demanded, heart racing. “Do you remember the color of his eyes?”

Clumsy's face screwed up, flushed, sweat dotting his brow. “I...”

“ _Tell me_ ,” Mary insisted.

“I, uh....” Blood dripped from the man's nose. “Them were... yell'a. Yell'a eyes. Ain't never seen nothin' like it.”

Mary felt the blood drain from her face. “The yellow-eyed man sent you here, specifically? Here, to my home? What else did he say? _What else?!_ ”

“Said....” Blood dripped down Clumsy's chin, his eyes starting to go red and irritated, ears flushed so red they were nearly purple. “Said 'ta bring guns, jus' fer safety. Ya never know when there'll be some nosy house-over old-folk watchin'.”

Mary's lip curled, baring her teeth. She could barely keep her hands from shaking.

“Somethin' else...” Clumsy gasped, body giving an abortive lurch. “He said...”

Mary glanced at John, who looked horrified at the process that the robber was going through. Doubtlessly, Clumsy had been cursed by Yellow-Eyes, that damned demon trying to cover his tracks by tying their tongues. She doubted Disarmed even remembered meeting the man.

“Said 'ta... 'ta set a fire. In the kitchen... so it'd look like some accident. Ain't no one notice... a few things missin' from... from a big ol' bonfire pit.” Blood dripped from the corners of Clumsy's eyes, the man clawing at the carpeted floor and gasping for breath. “Said ' _ain't they gonna miss... nothin' else. Nothin' more than... they already done lost.'_ I... I didn't think much on it...” He turned a darkly-bloodshot eye first to John, then to Mary. “What y'all done lost?”

“Mary,” John said under his breath, drawing her gaze. He was shaking, a vein twitching in his temple. “The man, the Yellow-Eyed man; did he... did he take...”

Mary gave one short, sharp nod. “Yeah, I. I think he did.”

“This one—he dying?”

Mary nodded again.

“Well,” John said shakily through gritted teeth. “Better help him out.”

Clumsy didn't seem to hear him over his wet gasping, mouth painted with blood despite his uninjured state.

“You wanna know what we lost—what he took?” Mary asked quietly.

Clumsy nodded with a heavy head.

John raised his gun and leveled it at Clumsy. “He took our son.”

_Bang_.

Clumsy's body fell back, motionless, blood staining the carpet in thick puddles of red.

Mary and John both turned back to Disarmed—

—only to see a gun in the man's hand, pointed at John.

“Yer gonna lose,” Disarmed said through a mouth of grinning, crooked teeth. “Ya can't beat 'im. Yer only thinkin' of now; ain't thinkin' enough'a later. He's thinkin' way ahead; he's playin' the long game. Yer gonna lose.”

“Put it down!” Mary commanded. “Right now, you _put it down!_ ”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Yeah, I'm thinkin' I will.”

The gun turned toward Mary.

_Bang._


	14. 2:3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got bored and made a few graphics that may be spoilery in nature. Make of them what you will! They're [here](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/43530829236/be-careful-making-wishes-in-the-dark-cant-be), [here](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/43496404728/he-walks-among-us-praise-him), and [here](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/43499723621/though-i-walk-through-the-valley-of-the-shadow-of). 
> 
> Don't forget that you can track [this tag](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/fic%3A+tbk) on Tumblr to keep up with updates as I write. There might be spoilers for the future, so ye be warned!
> 
> I hope none of you died while waiting for this resolution. Enjoy the chapter! I think you guys will like the next one; we'll get to see a very important character for the first time.

Mary stumbled heavily back, but not nearly as fast as John put a bullet into the other robber.

“Mary!” John shouted, falling to his knees at her side, one hand on her back to keep her sitting upright—when had she fallen? Mary blinked the blur from her eyes, the pain considerably less than she would have expected from a fatal wound—oh. Not fatal, but not painless. Shock. That's right, shot people go through shock. Even Hunters.

“Mary,” John said sharply. “Move your hand.”

Her hand? Mary glanced down at the hand clamped over her right shoulder, bloody—her hand. Right.

Right shoulder, impact at the clavicle—not fatal. Not even terribly dangerous. “It's okay, John,” Mary said. She had to get in her Hunter's mindset; this was no time to be a cowering housewife. “It's a shallow puncture, but my collar bone is broken—you'll have to extract it for me, but not until you go find Dean.”

“Mary— _what_ — _no!_ I'm not _extracting_ a bullet from you! Where the hell is all this talk coming from? How the hell'd you get my gun? It was disassembled; the ammo was locked up—!”

“John, this isn't the _time._ ” Mary glared at him through the fringe of her hair, stringy and slightly matted from the sweat that clung to her forehead. “ _Find our son. Now._ ”

“I need to call 911—”

He was interrupted by the sound of sirens in the distance.

“Someone must have heard the gunshots,” he said. “The bodies—”

“Self-defense,” Mary said evenly, silently doubting anyone had heard the shots; if anyone had called emergency services, it would have been Missouri. “The bloody one grabbed me—I headbutted him in the nose and scratched him, trying to get away. He pulled a gun on me; so did his partner. You'd gotten your service gun when you heard them break in—you shot the first one to disarm him, then the other when he tried to shoot you. The leader tried to shoot me in the head, but when his partner fell, he dragged me down and hit my shoulder instead. You shot him in response. Self-defense. It'll hold up; he had me, and our young son was in the house. And, speaking of which, _you need to go find him._ ” She glared at John. “I can wait. Dean can't.”

“Mary—”

“So _help_ me, John Eric Winchester, if you don't go and find our son _right now_ , you will be in for a world of hurt,” Mary snapped.

“ _Damn it_ , Mary—”

“ _March!_ ” she commanded.

Gritting his teeth, John flipped the safety on the stolen gun, tossing it toward the two corpses in disgust. He snatched his own gun out of her hands, unloading the magazine and chambered round before shoving the gun into his waistband and the bullets into his pocket. “We're going to talk after this,” he growled.

Mary watched in irritation as he turned on his heel, taking the stairs two-at-a-time as he launched himself toward the second level. “ _Dean?_ Dean, buddy, where are you?”

Mary had no desire to stay where she was, but this was a situation that called for appearances. Breathing deeply through her nose, she focused on drawing forth those crocodile-tears that always won her father over when she was young. Her eyes burned—she hated crying—and she cursed the necessity of appearing weak, even in a situation that would most likely have scarred anyone else in this position. Mary Winchester was not _anyone else_.

The sirens were nearly deafening as they got closer, red and blue lights flashing through the windows in the living room. Mary shivered with the draft that entered freely through the broken glass, allowed it to take hold, kept shivering. It was amazing what the body could do purely from force of will; raising or lowering body temperature was not beyond her limits, nor was forcing herself to cry (obviously). Mary was so familiar with the symptoms of shock that she could mimic them with minimal effort.

Footsteps pounded up the front steps and onto the porch; the clicking of handgun safety switches flicking off were as good a cue as any for Mary to turn up her reactions twofold. Her shoulders shook with cold-induced shivers, her skin chilled to the touch. She knew she'd be pale by now with the blood loss—not dangerous, but enough. She cradled her broken arm close, drawing her legs toward her body and using them as a shield to hide her face, gasping out a broken series of wet sobs.

The door was kicked open with a _crack_.

Officers stormed her normally-immaculate halls, shouts of ' _clear!'_ relaying between the cops in a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek. When they rounded that first corner into her living room and saw her huddled on the floor, the first officer shakily called for backup. It wasn't surprising that he sounded unnerved—there wasn't much crime in a place like Lawrence, Kansas, especially not in a close-knit neighborhood like theirs.

“Ma'am?” The officer said. “Ma'am, my name is Officer Mosely; I'm here to help you.” He crouched at her side, laying a careful hand on Mary's left shoulder. “Is there anyone else in the house?”

She shook her head, barely discernible from the shaking of her body.

“Good, that's good. Can you tell me your name?”

“M-Mary,” she stuttered through sobs, barely looking at the man (not that she could through her fake, two-penny tears). “Mary Win-Winchester.” She reached out with her uninjured arm toward the man, fingers gripping tightly at the navy-blue sleeve of his uniform, knowing the motion would be a good indicator of shock, but would also reveal her injury. “Please, please help me. My son—I can't find my s-son. My husband; he's l-looking. Please help.”

“Mary,” Officer Mosely said soothingly. “You're my mama's friend, aren't you? It's alright, Mary; she saw you were in trouble, she called me up. You're okay, now, you're safe. We're gonna find your boy. Now, I need you to come with me—d'you think you could do that?”

Mary shook her head. “No, my husband told me to stay—”

“Mary, it's okay. You don't need to be afraid; I want to help you. If you come outside with me, we can help get you cleaned up, get that there wound on your shoulder looked at. The other officers and I; we'll find your husband and your son, okay? We'll find them, I promise.”

Mary clutched tighter, but gave a shaky nod. “Please,” she whispered pitifully, ignoring the disgust that curled in her stomach at her own feigned weakness.

“Alright. Come on, now,” Mosely said, taking her good hand and bracing his arm on her back. “Up you get, ma'am. Good, that's good.” For all that Mary hated this act, she felt a warm curl of gratitude for Officer Mosely—Dennis, if she remembered right. Missouri had always spoken fondly of him; obviously her pride was justified. “Can you walk on your own, or would you like me to help you?”

“H-help,” Mary whispered, eyes fixed in feigned horror on the bodies staining her floor.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Come on, Mary, it's alright. We'll take care of that; you're safe. You're safe.”

She leaned heavily into Dennis Mosely's side, mirroring his steps on shaky legs as he led her out of the house. EMTs were at her side with a stretcher within seconds, sitting her down and offering her a thick, warm blanket as they tended to her bullet wound. They, of course, wanted to rush her immediately to the hospital, but Mary threw enough of a faux-hysterical fit about leaving John and Dean that they agreed to wait long enough to find out their fate—her wound, after all, was not an immediate threat. Mary allowed them to carefully apply peroxide to a sterile pad and cover the opening, hopefully to minimize the threat of infection; she let out appropriate hisses and gasps as she went, drawing sympathetic responses from everyone involved. After all, there was nothing more tragic than the classically-wounded small-town mother, loyal to her last to her husband and son, heedless of her own needs until she knew they were safe.

Mary could just about puke at the stereotype, but the blonde hair and motherly-innocent white nightgown were helpful in her weaving of the cheap charade. Not to mention her name—Mary Winchester; _Winchester_ , they all whispered, shooting her sickeningly-sympathetic, pitying glances when they thought she wasn't looking.

 _Winchester,_ they said.

' _She's the one that lost her son three years ago.'_

_'Stolen right out of his crib; isn't it awful?'_

_'Never found out what happened to him; no leads, nothing.'_

_'That poor woman; what a tragic life.'_

_'I remember her from years ago; always lived here, her parents, too. Traveled a lot, but always came home. Both of 'em passed away on the same day; left her all alone.'_

_'God bless her soul. There better be something nice waiting for her in Heaven, or God Himself will have to deal with Lawrence, Kansas.'_

She could kill them all without a second thought, but she wouldn't. Her job was to protect them, no matter what she lost in the process. There had been Hunters that lost far more and had done much better than her, all of whom got not a fraction of the acknowledgement Mary got. She had no right to be ungrateful to them, but Lord, she would be bitter to the end about it; even if it meant she never tasted sweetness again.

But there was sweetness, still—sweetness she felt so keenly as she saw John emerge from the front door, Dean clutched to his chest, fatherly overprotectiveness obvious in the way he allowed no officers near him or Dean and walked straight to Mary like a man with one goal in mind. John's sense of family would have made her father proud, Mary was sure, if only Samuel had ever gotten the chance to see John as a father.

Mary's tears, this time, were entirely genuine as she reached out to her boys, holding them close.

 _'Thank God,'_ said the assembled.

Mary had to agree; in a world of monsters, both human and supernatural, she had only God to thank for the good in her life.

“I told you,” she whispered to Dean, whose face was screwed up with the effort not to cry and the stains of his failure in traitorous tears. He gripped her nightgown and leaned into her uninjured side, head rested against her beating heart. “Angels are watching over you, Dean.”

“I know,” He replied, eyes bright with tears and something like wonder. “I know.”

 

 

 


	15. 2:4

Dean Winchester was a normal boy, except for when he wasn't.

In his seven-year-old mind, he was pretty sure this wasn't normal at all.

His mom and dad were scared— _scared._ His _mom_. His _dad!_ _Dad_ was scared! Naturally, Dean was terrified, just as any other seven-year-old with a scared mom and dad would be.

He wanted to beg them not to go, wanted to beg them to hide under the bed with him, to stay away from the noises, because his self-defense teacher said that choosing your battles very wisely was the first rule to live by, and you should never, _ever_ go looking for a fight if you could avoid it. He knew they wouldn't stay, though, so he didn't ask—Dad was a hero, a _soldier._ And Mom, well; she was a Mom. Moms are never scared and moms never cry, even when they're sad.

And Dean was a _good kid_ , and good kids did what they were told.

Dean huddled under the bed, listening the hardest he could, eyes scrunched shut and concentrating like he could hear a pin drop a mile away if he tried hard enough. Everything was quiet so far—maybe everything would be okay. Everything _had_ to be okay, right? His parents said so, so it _had_ to be true.

Slowly, Dean opened his eyes, peering out from under the bed. He was alone, but—

“Hello, Dean,” said an unfamiliar voice, and Dean jolted, hitting his head on the metal underside of the bed.

“Oww,” he whined before he could remember himself; when he did, his eyes went huge. “Don't come near me!”

“I am not here to hurt you, Dean Winchester,” said the voice, a pair of feet entering Dean's vision; pink rubber soles attached to some sort of tennis shoes, mismatching socks clinging to otherwise-bare ankles. The feet adjusted, and a pair of tanned knees followed down to the carpet. Hands next, one wrist with a pink plastic watch—the face that followed was unexpected and, quite frankly, startling.

“You're a girl,” Dean said with wide eyes. “I thought robbers were boys.”

“Not always,” the woman said—not so much of a woman as a _young adult_ , long and lean and tan, dark hair dripping from a ponytail holder into the girl's face, hiding blue eyes. “But I'm not a robber.”

“You're in my house,” Dean pointed out. “In my mom and dad's room. There are robbers downstairs.”

“True,” the girl agreed. “But I am not one of them. I'm not going to hurt you, Dean Winchester.”

“How do you know my name?” Dean backed under the bed further, despite his curiosity.

The girl have a short breath that could barely be counted as a sigh. “Your mother has told you that angels were watching over you, ever since before you were born. Do you believe her?”

Dean hesitated before replying, “Yeah.”

“Then I will tell you the truth—I am an angel of the Lord, our God. I have little time, Dean Winchester—if you come with me, I will keep you safe. If you choose to stay, it is likely you will be hurt very badly. Will you come?”

Dean wasn't sure—but something about the girl felt kind of like his mom did; _safe._ “Yes,” he whispered, crawling toward the girl, inching out from under the heavy bed frame, taking the girl's hand when she offered it. “You don't look like an angel,” Dean said quietly as the girl helped him to his feet.

“What do angels look like?” The girl asked, sounding honestly curious.

Dean balked at being put on the spot. “I dunno. Big wings and haloes and harps. That's what they say at Sunday School.”

“That's untrue,” said the girl, sounding mildly irritated. “And clerics—they teach you this?”

“Her name's Sister Abigail,” Dean replied, holding the girl's hand tightly. “She's got a black dress.”

The girl made a sound of acknowledgement, but offered no immediate comment as she brushed a strand of dust from the shoulder of Dean's pajamas. “Well,” she said finally. “Her intentions are likely kind, though the information is inaccurate. Angels are warriors of the Lord God. We are soldiers.”

“Like Dad?” Dean asked.

“Yes, like your father, but much more fierce.”

Dean opened his mouth to protest, ready to argue, when he heard noise coming from the stairs. “Someone's coming!” he whispered desperately.

“Do not let go of my hand,” the girl said firmly, not making so much as a sound when Dean squeezed her fingers with all the strength he could muster. “Close your eyes,” she said.

Dean did, and immediately felt his body tingle, kind of like when his feet fell asleep during Reading Circle at school.

“Open them.”

He did—and he gasped. There were tiles beneath his bare feet, scratchy and prickly, and the ceiling above them was gone; instead, there was a huge, dark stretch of sky, bright with stars.

“We're outside,” Dean said quietly. “How'd you—?”

“I'm an angel,” the girl repeated, though sounded a bit gratified at Dean's admiration. “We're on the roof, so be very careful; sit, but slowly. Stay quiet; the man is still inside and he may hear you.”

Dean sat, as he had been told, but paled when the girl stayed standing and released his hand. “Wait!” he exclaimed fearfully. “Don't leave me, please.”

The girl looked at him, head tilted, perplexed. “You are safe, Dean Winchester.”

“Please,” Dean begged. “Please don't go.”

The girl stared for a while longer before she nodded. “Very well,” she said, slowly sitting by Dean's side.

“Thank you,” he whispered shakily.

The girl gave a slight nod.

“What's your name?” Dean asked, wanting to talk about something; _anything_.

“My name is irrelevant,” she said simply. “I will not stay long. It is unlikely you will ever see me again.”

“But—”

“Are you cold?” she asked.

Dean shook his head. “Aren't you?”

The girl wore only a pair of jogging shorts and a sleeveless shirt, but yet, she shook her head _no_. “I do not feel the cold or the heat, and my Grace will keep Anne-Claire's body in perfect homeostasis.”

Dean frowned in confusion. “So s'not your body?”

“Angels do not have bodies,” she replied. “We only borrow them from humans that give their permission for us to do so. Not like demons—demons take bodies without asking, often with little regard to the consequences.”

“Demons?” Dean's eyes widened. “They're real?”

“Of course,” she said. “As are many things thought to be imaginary. Monsters, beasts, creatures; all of which are real.” She looked at Dean, and, seeing his fear, said, “Worry not. Your mother has protected your home from nearly everything _other—_ all except for angels, and, of course, humans.”

“How?”

The angel looked at him, head tilted. “She is a Hunter; a soldier, like your father, but one that fights monsters instead of men. She kills to protect humanity; much more noble than many soldiers.”

“My mom's not a soldier,” he said. “She's a mom.”

The angel blinked. “I was under the impression you knew. Did she not teach you to fight?”

Dean shook his head, then paused—technically, his teachers had taught him, but his mom had helped, too. “Yeah, I guess.” He thought hard on the matter, frowning deeply, until—“Is that why Sammy's gone? Did a monster get him?”

The girl's forehead creased in something close to a frown. “How do you mean?”

“Sammy,” Dean repeated earnestly, in the way that small children trying to make a point often do. “He left a long time ago; everyone looked for him, but he never came back. Mom doesn't like to talk about it.” Dean swallowed. “She looks sad, sometimes. I know my Dad gets real sad sometimes; I think on Sammy's birthday, 'cause he's not there.”

“Samuel is gone?” she asked sharply. “For how long?”

“Long time,” Dean answered. “Since I was real little.”

“That can't be,” she said, but very quietly, and Dean thought that maybe he wasn't supposed to hear. “He was to be protected—he cannot be dead, we would know—”

Her voice was cut off by the sound of sirens; over the tops of the trees, Dean could see red and blue lights. “Cops!” Dean proclaimed, forgetting some of his fear in favor of excitement. “We met a cop at school once!”

The girl, however, did not seem nearly as enthusiastic, forehead creasing more deeply. “Something is very wrong,” she said. “That noise—”

“Sirens?” Dean asked.

She shook her head. “No, I believe it was—”

_Bang._

Cold fear jolted through Dean; before he could fight, the girl had his wrist gripped tight, even as he struggled to get away. “My mom!” he protested. “My dad! Lemme go!”

“You must stay safe,” she said firmly.

“No! Lemme go!”

“I cannot,” said the angel. “We must wait.”

Dean dissolved into tears, scared and shaky. The fight drained out of him in favor of leaning into the girl's side heavily, looking for comfort in the way that children do. The girl, however, was stiff and cold, even as Dean's skinny arms wrapped around her in an awkward hug. “You're 'n angel,” he said tearfully. “Save them. _Save them_.”

“You are my sole charge,” she said. “I will watch over you, Dean Winchester. Your parents' fate will be left to God.”

“I don't like God!” Dean cried angrily. “God made monsters and guns and let Sammy go away! God's mean!”

“Do not speak ill of my Father,” the angel said, voice cold, though she did not refuse Dean's persistent hold. “God is great and beyond contemplation; you are all but an infant. He owes you nothing, but he sent me to you all the same. Show respect.”

“No,” Dean protested. “If my mom or dad die, I don't want to talk to God ever again!”

“You are a _child_ ,” the angel said snippily. “You know nothing.”

“I know a lot! I know all about my mom and dad! I know about Jesus—Jesus wouldn't let my parents die! Jesus wouldn't let Sam go away!”

“The Father and the Son are one in the same,” she said.

“Nu-uh! God's the dad, Jesus is the kid; me and my dad aren't the same!” Cop cars swarmed in front of the house, sirens loud and piercing. Dean started squirming anew, releasing the angel and trying to get away. “Let me go! Dad! _Dad!_ ”

“ _Child,”_ the girl hissed, but when Dean blinked, he found himself back in the empty room. “There,” she said dispassionately. “You have your wish. Goodbye, Dean Winchester.”

“Wait!”

Dean grabbed the girl, his face conflicted. “I—I didn't mean to be rude. I'm sorry.”

“Do not apologize to me,” she sniffed. “It is not me to whom you owe your apologies.”

Dean nodded a little, but his eyes were still downcast. “I—thank you. For saving me, I mean.”

The girl stared for a long moment before she shook off Dean's hand from her wrist, instead laying her hand atop his head. “You are very blessed, Dean Winchester. Even when times become difficult, you must remember that you are still blessed, and you will never be alone. Promise me you will not forget.”

“I promise,” Dean agreed instantly. “I promise...”

Her head tilted, her eyes closed for half a second, before she sighed, “Castiel. I am Castiel.”

“I promise, Castiel,” he repeated, nodding. He paused. “Castiel— _Castiel_ , the angel of Thursday? _That_ Castiel?”

Castiel's lips quirked slightly, but she did not confirm or deny his query, gently removing her hand. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“Bye,” Dean replied quietly, and in between one blink and the next, Castiel was gone.

“ _Dean!”_

Sufficiently distracted, Dean turned and ran into his father's embrace, scared and relieved and safe at last.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've recently decided how TBK is going to end: spoiler alert, but it won't be nice (not that a fic like this could end particularly well). Would you all rather that I post the future warnings that are not yet applicable so you readers are forewarned? I don't want anyone to get too attached and then be (very) unpleasantly surprised a couple hundred-thousand words down the road. Would you rather I post the tags that won't come into effect until much later, even if they might give spoilers?


	16. 2:5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did [more](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/44694871153/clever-love-ava) [art](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/44927092522/the-sovereign-four-the-boy-king) [stuff](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/44802417518/m-f-e-o).
> 
> If anyone wants to make their own art for TBK, I will ~~sell you my soul~~ be eternally grateful.

Mary's wound, though frightening to Dean's young eyes, was easily cleaned and stitched at Lawrence General Hospital; the doctors even allowed Dean to look at the extracted bullet, soaked in sterile solution and encapsulated in a plastic container. Mary didn't so much as hiss at the extraction— _shock_ , the doctors said. _She'll be feeling it later_.

Dean was the only witness to his mother's grim smile and her slight roll of the eyes when they pressed a vial of intimidating-looking pills into her hand.

 _Is it true?_ Dean wondered. _Is my mom a—a Hunter?_

He wondered, but under all these watchful eyes, he knew better than to ask.

However, Mary had scarcely taken her eyes off her son since he'd confided in her about the angel—she knew better than to take his words for granted, especially the clarity with which Dean had whispered to his mother about the girl with the ponytail that had saved him from the intruders. Mary had never heard of angels in the hunting world before; never even so much as a rumor, despite the commonplace nature of demons from Hell. That didn't mean they didn't exist, per se—only meant that, until now, no one had knowingly made contact.

It just figured that the first to do so would be her seven-year-old son, ignorant of the hunting world and all of its ways. If only Dean had been older, knew more, knew what to look for, how to identify _things_ —

It wasn't the life she'd ever wanted for him. Mary stopped that train of thought before it could even start rolling in earnest. She could work with the information Dean had.

That was, if she could get him to open up more about what had happened.

 

* * *

 

 

Against the doctors' recommendations, Mary checked herself out of the hospital barely a few hours after she'd arrived, dragging a wildly-protesting husband and eerily-silent son in tow. It was only due to her quiet, _“Not now, John,”_ that her increasingly-overbearing husband let her near the automatic doors. John was stonily silent as he opened the passenger-side door to the Impala, shiny and out of place in the nearly-deserted hospital parking lot. Mary ushered Dean in first; the boy was nearly falling asleep on his feet, eyelids drooping over bloodshot green eyes. Crammed between his parents, he nodded off against Mary's good shoulder faster than he'd ever fallen asleep since he'd been born.

“Poor baby,” Mary sighed, arm curling around his narrow shoulders. “Nearly sunrise and no sleep at all. What a night.”

“What the hell is going on, Mary?” John asked lowly. “You should be a mess right now. You should be traumatized from all this—someone breaking into our house in the middle of the night, getting shot! Not to mention pulling my service gun from god-knows where and assembling it in the two minutes you were gone—you _loaded_ it, Mary. That ammo was in a locked cabinet! It's like I have no idea who you are!”

“Quietly, John,” she hissed, glancing at Dean's restless-asleep face. “And, really, is this the _time_ —?”

“Yes, now _is_ the time,” he snapped, lip curled, eyes unwavering from the road. “Otherwise you'll avoid the subject and I'll never get an answer out of you. What the hell happened back there?”

Mary grit her teeth. How could she even start—?

“Mom's a Hunter,” said a quiet, sleepy voice.

“ _What?”_ John snapped, his head jerking toward Dean before back at the road. “Dean, you're tired. Go to bed.”

“It's true,” the boy protested weakly, turning his face into Mary's shoulder.

“Mary?” John demanded.

The woman looked down at her son, expression unreadable. “Dean—”

“Castiel told me,” he mumbled.

“Who the hell—”

“She's an angel,” Dean said, glancing warily at his father. “An angel of the Lord. She saved me tonight; when the bad man came. She found me under the bed and brought me to the roof. She told me about monsters and demons.”

“Dean—”

“It's true!” Dean exploded, voice shrill, pressing his face back into Mary's good shoulder. “It's true. She told me! She said that Mom's a Hunter and that she fights monsters! But she said we're safe because Mom protected the house: _from everything but angels and humans_ , she said.”

“That's ridiculous,” John scoffed.

“Why?” Mary asked, looking at her husband.

There was a tense moment of silence, John looking over at the double-team of serious expressions. “I—what?”

“Why is it ridiculous?” Mary repeated, lips pursed slightly. “You've acknowledged Missouri as a psychic; why is it so ridiculous to think that there could be other things out there?”

“You can't be serious.”

“Of course I am.”

John made a quiet, pained noise, glancing at Mary, eyes flickering back and forth between his wife and the road. “Mary, stop. It's been a long night. You need to rest.”

“Rest won't change reality,” she replied simply, ruffling a hand through Dean's hair. “Dean, what else did Castiel say?”

“Um,” he said, face screwed up in concentration. “Before the cops came—I asked her if monsters were why Sammy was gone.”

Mary's gaze sharpened. “What did she say, Dean?”

“Mary—”

“Shut _up_ , John. Dean. _What did she say?_ ”

Dean's hand gripped at the edge of her hospital scrubs, given to her after the _accident_. “She said, um. She didn't know Sammy was gone until I said—she said he was supposed to be protected. Said he, um, _he can't be dead or we'd know_ , I think she said.”

“Did she say anything about a demon?” Mary demanded, good hand gripping onto the back of Dean's pajamas.

Dean shook his head. “Not with Sammy. Jus' said they were real.”

The lines around Mary's mouth tightened, lips thinning as she schooled her expression into something resembling calm, or at least something that looked less furious or broken or whatever it was that she was feeling. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Said he's not dead, though, right? That's good. He's alive somewhere.” But she'd known that. There was no point in taking Sam in secret if they weren't going to take him alive.

“ _Mary_ —”

“John,” she interrupted simply, looking at her husband. “It sounds crazy, but it's all true.”

“You're sick,” he protested weakly. “Still in shock, drugged from the pain medication—”

“I'm not.” Mary rubbed her hand over Dean's back, both to calm her son and herself. “You know I'm not. Even if I was, it doesn't explain how I could assemble a gun; I'm a housewife, John. You didn't teach me how to fire your gun, so I had to have learned it somewhere else. I've been a Hunter for my whole life. So was my father; so was his father. My family's one of the oldest families of Hunters in the United States—and you're a Winchester. Winchesters are traditionally part of the Men of Letters; your father never returned, correct? It's likely he was killed in a raid.”

“My father left and never came back!” John snapped. “My father was a no-good coward who left my mother alone in Illinois to raise a child. She brought me here just in time to die when I was twelve.”

“Your mother left,” Mary agreed. “You're a Legacy, John; you would have been taken care of, if they'd known where to find you. But you were gone, and I expect they didn't have enough folks left to look for a Legacy.”

“ _No_ ,” John argued firmly. “I—no.”

“I can prove it's all real,” Mary said quietly, dipping her head to press a kiss against Dean's hairline. “Demons, daevas, vampires, skin-walkers, wendigos; real. All of them. Things you could never even dream of. I know I sound crazy,” she said, cutting him off when he opened his mouth. “I know I do. It's why I never told you before. But this is my life; my real life. It should have been your life, too, John—if it was, you'd know why I never wanted it for Dean.” Mary swallowed thickly, petting her hand through Dean's hair, smiling faintly at the sleepy noise he made in return. “It's not a good life; in fact, it's horrible. It's gruesome and brutal and usually very short. My father was one of the oldest Hunters in the field, and he was barely fifty when he was killed.”

“You said your father died of a heart attack,” John protested.

“I lied.”

Silence reigned, its domain named _Impala._

“Just—just accept, at a basic level, that all of these things are real. It's hard; you don't have proof right now, but you're going to have to trust me.”

“Why should I trust a word you say?” He snapped. “Assuming you aren't _crazy_ , you _lied_ to me. Every word about your life has been a lie.”

“Yes it was, and I'm not sorry for it.” Mary remained calm in the face of his anger. “I was protecting you; thought I was protecting all of us. Then Sam was taken. I started training again, just a little; self-defense with Dean, the equipment in the basement. I got back in contact with a few other hunters, putting feelers out, trying to get a lead on Sam, but it was a no-go. That's scary, John; you don't know how scary it is. Demons got their hands on our son, and suddenly they all went dead quiet. Something big is coming; maybe not now, or even soon, but I think this is the beginning. This is the only warning we're gonna get, especially if that Yellow-Eyed bastard sent his goons to finish the job with us tonight.”

John glanced at her. “Yellow Eyes? The one that guy—the one he was talking about?”

Mary nodded. “A demon, one of the big-bads. Demons have black eyes, full-black scleras. I've never heard of one with a variation, not until Yellow-Eyes. Most people that see him don't live to talk about it, but we think he's the boss downstairs; the head of the beast. What those goons said; what happened to the one who was... failing.” She glanced at Dean, seeing that he'd nodded off again. “That was because of the demon; probably a Silence Pact. Goon broke his silence and he died for it, but we needed that information. Whatever's happening, whatever's coming, we're a part of it. He wants us out of the way.”

“Why?” John asked, finally turning onto their street, hands tight on the steering wheel. “Why us? Why Sam?”

“I don't know that yet,” Mary replied.

“If he's gonna keep coming after us, Mer, we can't stay,” John said.

“Our house is protected. I've warded it to the nines, just like Dean said. Nothing supernatural can get in, except for angels, apparently—this is the first I've ever heard of them, but I believe Dean—and humans. Our home is probably the of the best safe-houses in the country, aside from maybe Bobby Singer's, and the Lettermen's bunker up in the Northeast. Pastor Jim's Parish is probably right up there, too. Our house is safe.”

They pulled into the driveway, both John and Mary taking a long moment to look at the tape stretched around the property line and the patrol car parked right out front, Dennis Mosely sitting watch.

“Still,” Mary said quietly. “Our house is safe, but outside of it, you and Dean aren't. I'll find anti-possession charms; they'll protect you both. I always keep mine with me when I go out.”

“Your charm bracelet,” John realized.

“That's right,” she agreed with a nod, moving to unbuckle her seatbelt. “Can you get Dean?”

“Yeah, I've got him,” John replied, scooping up their son as he got out of the car, walking around to open the door for Mary despite her token protests. “Are you gonna be okay, Mer?”

“I'll be fine. This isn't the worst I've had, not by far; I'll be laid up in a sling for a while, though.” She shrugged. “Maybe you could take Dean to self-defense; get a start on the techniques. I can test you once I'm healed up some. We can start at the shooting range after that; I mean, you can come with me, if you want.”

John stared for a long moment, closing the car door before he said, “Yeah, I think I can manage that.”

“Good,” Mary said, looking toward Dennis, who was climbing out of the car to come talk to them. “Things'll be different now, you know.”

“I know,” John replied simply. “But they have been, haven't they? Ever since... ever since Sam.”

Mary nodded.

“Do you think we'll get him back?” John asked quietly.

“I hope so,” Mary sighed. “One way or another, though—we'll see him again. I know we'll see him again.”

“That's good, thought, right?”

Mary's eyes closed, jaw clenched. “Yeah,” she whispered, praying her words were the truth. “Yeah, it's good.”

 

 

 

 

 


	17. 2:6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's author contributions are mostly music-based. Here's a [fanmix](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/45402518191/the-boy-king-part-one-the-fanmix-1-awake) and here's an [original song](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/46630440389/a-special-child-revised-twofallenkings) that in my headcanon, Lucifer wrote for Sam, as he was the former Chief Angel of Music. I have two more songs to contribute, but those are gonna have to wait until next chapter for the sake of making sense.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Damn it, Mary,” John grumbled as the Impala rolled up the gravel road. “You didn't say he had a dog.”

“He didn't; not the last time I saw him,” Mary replied simply, pulling her hair up into a ponytail.

“Cool!” Dean crowed, rocketing out of the back seat. “A _dog!_ ”

“Dean Winchester, you mind him, now!” Mary shouted out the window after her ten-year-old son. “Don't you bother him; I won't be wrapping your hand if you get bitten!”

“Yes, ma'am!” Dean replied carelessly, running toward the barking animal, pack thumping against his back as he went.

“That boy'll be the death of me,” Mary sighed, climbing out of the Impala, turning when she noticed John wasn't following. “John?”

“You didn't say there'd be a dog,” John repeated warily.

Mary rolled her eyes. “Come on, you big baby,” she insisted. “You can handle a salt-and-burn, but not one little dog?”

“That's a big dog!” John protested. “That's not even a dog; that's a _beast._ That's over a hundred pounds of rage on a chain.”

“Get out of the car, John,” Mary sighed, very put-upon. “You won't be making any friends out of Bobby by being a sissy.”

John grumped like it was his job as he vacated his beloved car, walking around and popping the trunk to get the pair of duffel bags inside. He briefly checked the newly-installed false compartment, staring at the veritable arsenal inside.

“Come _on_ , John. Toss me my bag; let's go.” Mary caught her duffel, significantly more worn than John's, and hiked it up over her shoulder. “ _March_ , soldier.”

“Yes, ma'am,” John grumbled, following along behind Mary as she led him toward the beat-up house and the man on the front porch who had just emerged, a half-empty beer bottle in hand and a tattered cap on his head.

“Bobby!” Mary greeted brightly, breaking into a light jog as she bounded up the stairs and threw her arms around the older Hunter. “It's good to see you, ya old grouch!”

Bobby huffed, giving Mary a one-armed hug, but his eyes were fond as he looked at her. “Wouldn't be half as pleased to see me if you came around more often, you bitty-blonde idjit.”

“I was on a job,” Mary replied, half-joking, head inclined toward her son,who was tussling with the enormous Rottweiler, and her husband, who lingered warily behind.

“And got another bitty-blonde idjit for your trouble,” Bobby sniffed, watching Dean roll in the dirt.

“Dean's a good kid,” Mary said softly. “And he's not a half-bad shot, either, you know.”

“I'm sure. He's yours, ain't he?”

“That he is. The other one's mine, too,” she answered, rolling her eyes at John who was edging around the dog slowly. She looked back at Bobby, who stared at her, disbelieving and unimpressed to the extreme. “He's not usually quite this pitiful.”

“I'll have to take your word for it,” he replied, accenting his annoyance with a harrumph. “Now, git that boy out of the dirt before Rumsfeld bites him.”

“Rumsfeld?” Mary asks, frowning. “Shouldn't he be, like, fourteen?”

“Nah. That's the second Rumsfeld.”

“Couldn't find a new name for your dog?” Mary asked, raising a brow. “Don't you have enough books to draw from?”

“You shaddup,” Bobby grumped. “Name the dog after the one before an' he's got something to live up to. Don't you be criticizing my ways, girl; your father would have your ear for your backtalk.”

“Good thing he's not here, then,” said Mary. “I'm good for more than staying back and reading books and looking after the endangered children.”

“Damn straight,” Bobby agreed. “One of the best damn hunters around, I say. Was a damn shame when you retired.” Still, Bobby looked at Dean with something in his weathered face that almost seemed sad.

Mary swallowed a little bit, wishing with empty hope that Bobby could have met her youngest son; could have seen two boys rolling around instead of just the one. Then, though, if not for what happened to Sam, Bobby likely never would have seen Mary again at all. “So, old man,” she said. “You gonna offer me a beer or what?”

“Yeah, yeah.” he grumped. “Git in here, Campbell.”

“Winchester, now,” Mary corrected, seeing the flicker of recognition cross Bobby's face. “Don't even think about it, sir. John's not a Man of Letters; by best guess, we think his father was, but he disappeared before John could be brought into The Life.”

“Damn shame. Would have liked to get my hands on some of their books; rumor has it they've got the original King James Bible.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mary said with a roll of her eyes. “John! Dean!” Mary hollered. “Come on, now; get your butts in the house. John, can you brush him off?”

John gave Mary a look, huffing at Mary's small smile as she followed Bobby inside and ignored his snippy, “Yes, dear.”

“Thanks, you're a doll,” she replied sarcastically, the door closing behind her.

“Nice guy,” Bobby said, leading her to the kitchen and fishing a beer out of his nearly-empty fridge, handing it over. “Where'd you get him?”

“Fished his ass out of a river,” Mary replied, popping the cap on the counter. “You know, your fridge is in a sad state.”

“I _have_ a bottle opener,” Bobby complained. “And my fridge is just fine, you nag.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “You've got cheese,” she said, tossing the cap atop a pile already present on the side of the sink. “Not even good cheese, just those individual single-slices; and you've got beer. Cheese and beer and I think there might have been a tomato, but I can't be sure, because it's growing its own country.” Bobby grumbled something; Mary paid him no mind. “You need to take care of yourself, Bobby. You're a hunter and you need to be at your best. What would the others do if you kicked it because of malnourishment? They'd be shit outta luck, that's what, and then they'd scramble around cluelessly, having to do their own damn research, and they'd get themselves killed by reciting a chant in ancient Greek instead of Latin.”

“Wouldja get off my ass, girl? I'm fine,” Bobby replied, scowling. “I've been answering calls night and day for the past week; I haven't got a chance to get to the store. Besides, some Sheriff's been bringing over casseroles; damn-fool woman.”

Mary hopped up on the counter, the backs of her sandals hitting the cabinets as her feet swung. “Oh? Who is she?”

“Mills,” Bobby said gruffly, scowling harder like it would make Mary miss the ruddy flush in his cheeks. “Jody Mills. She's a good woman; lost her husband and son a while back.”

“And what does she think about this here upstanding home?”

“Thinks it's a damn mess,” Bobby huffed. “She's right. Chews my ear off about it half the time.”

“Do I get to meet this Sheriff Mills?” Mary asked, wheedling.

“Absolutely not; you keep your nose out of my business, woman. You're a damn nag just like Mills.”

“Damn right I am,” she replied. “I got two boys to look after; if I didn't nag, nothing'd ever get done.”

“Well, bully for you, but stay off my case. You all ain't here to be on my ass about my own house.”

“Whatever you say,” Mary agreed. “Once I get the boys all settled in, I can run into town and get some _real_ food. I'll cook up enough while I'm here that you'll have plenty of leftovers.”

“Well, ain't you one big damn hero,” he grumbled, Mary's reply cut off by the opening of the front door.

“Mer?”

“In here, John,” Mary called.

“Where do we put our shoes?” John asked.

“Leave 'em on,” she replied with a wry grin. “Never know what you'll step on in a place like this.”

“Great,” John drawled sardonically, the annoyed twist of Bobby's face going unseen; Mary set her jaw—they'd clash soon enough. On second thought, maybe she'd send John into town to get food.

Dean rounded the corner, running to his mother, face split with a wide grin; there was a scratch on his jaw, his fingers caked with dirt. “Mom, can we get a dog?”

“No, sweetie,” Mary said patiently over John's pained noise. “Wash your hands, Dean-o.” Dean scampered to the sink, leaning over the basin just to the side of Mary's hip, hands thrust under the rust-flecked spray. Mary noted that with a frown. “Let it run a minute or two before you go drinking anything.”

“'Kay,” Dean answered, wiping his hands on his filthy clothes, leaving them streaked with mud. Mary sighed, resigned to the good twenty minutes it would take to scrub the dirt from the deep-pocketed khaki shorts.

Dean turned to look up at the gruff, scruffy-faced man, even still wearing his tattered cap inside the house. “Gotta take your hat off,” Dean said simply.

“Dean,” Mary chastised. “Not our house, not my house rules.”

“Mr. Finch said it's a sign of respect,” Dean complained to his mother, referencing the words of his fourth-grade teacher. He looked back to Bobby. “Don't you respect your house?”

Bobby stared hard at the young boy before him; blonde hair sandy-bleached by the sun, dark spattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks, glass-green eyes both questioning and demanding. The boy's hands were parked on his hips like they didn't often move from that position; aside from the slant of his nose and the tilt of his ears, the boy was the spitting image of the woman perched on the counter.

And, obviously, he was just as insolent.

“Mind your tone, boy,” Bobby growled. “It's my house; I'll do as I damn well please.”

Dean's eyes widened. “You swore.”

Bobby shot an incredulous look to Mary; she shrugged in return. Bobby looked back to the kid, who shifted uncertainly. “So?” Bobby asked, unsuccessfully attempting to reign in his natural gruff sarcasm.

“Um,” Dean hesitated. “So, swearing is bad?”

“Says _who?_ ” Bobby retorted.

Dean blinked owlishly, wide green eyes focused on the older man. “Um,” he started. “Says everyone?”

“Oh, well call the presses,” he drawled, gesturing at the boy with his bottle. “ _Everyone says—_ well, that's too damn bad.”

Mary snorted; couldn't help it, despite the fact that she knew how intimidating it could be on the other end of Bobby's sour attitude.

“My house,” Bobby said. “My _damn_ rules. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Dean echoed weakly.

“Well, good,” he huffed. “My name's Bobby Singer, I'm your Mama's friend.”

“Yes sir.”

“None of that, now,” Bobby said with a roll of his eyes. “You can call me Uncle Bobby. None of this tryin' to be cute and callin' me anything else, y'hear?”

Dean hesitated, looking to Mary—Mary nodded, offering a smile. Dean mirrored the gesture in turn. “'Kay.”

Bobby reached over to rough up Dean's hair, drawing a heated protest from the boy. “Room upstairs at the end of the hall is yours, kid. You can go put your stuff up there.”

Dean nodded, skittering off while attempting to flatten his hair down—a futile gesture, but one that drew a laugh from John as he entered the kitchen. “I put our bags upstairs, Mary.”

“Make yourself at home,” Bobby grumped.

“Oh, shut your mouth; I'm not sleeping on the couch, old man,” Mary retorted, holding out her hand toward John. John went to her, snatching her beer and taking a sip before Mary could protest. “Ass! That's mine; get your own.”

“Ain't as good,” John replied, leaning against the counter and avoiding Mary's idle swipes at the bottle.

“Damn fools; actin' like kids.”

“Yep, that's us,” Mary replied. “Couple'a kids.”

“Don't know how you can fool around like that, knowing what you know.”

At that, Mary's expression tightened; wordlessly, John handed the bottle back to her, going to fish one out of the fridge for himself. “Gotta,” John said. “Lord knows I tried being serious about it all the time; nearly dragged myself down for it. I don't know what I'd do if Mary didn't pull me back out, and even then, it ain't easy.”

“It's hunting,” Mary replied quietly. “Ain't supposed to be easy.”

John returned, lightly knocking her with his shoulder. “I meant dealing with _you._ ”

“Jerk!” Mary protested, mock-offended.

“Bitch,” John answered easily.

“Idjits,” said Bobby. His grumbling only got louder as they laughed.

 

 

 

 

 


	18. 2:7

While the visit with Bobby was as nice as it could be, it wasn't long before it was over; John and Mary were no closer to finding Sam than they were before, and Bobby had precious little information on demons since the lot had gone underground (perhaps more literally than they could be sure). However, it was there that Dean had his first experience with shooting a gun, Bobby setting up a line of cans and beer bottles on a junked car. He started off with bbs, not moving up to a small handgun until his aim had gained the approval of the adults. It was with Bobby's help that, at age ten, Dean started learning more about monsters from the books Bobby kept. It was here that Dean was sworn to secrecy about The Life, the consequences made clear to him if he told anyone outside of those already involved—while he was a child, people may think he had an overactive imagination; but if he spoke too much, he might even be taken away.

Dean's wide-eyed terror made his answer very clear—even among those who were safe, it was likely he would never talk about his newfound role in being a hunter.

They were just starting to find their rhythm—mother, father, and son—when Dean turned eleven.

Later that month, Mary discovered she was pregnant.

 

* * *

 

Despite John's protests, Mary refused to lay off the training, even if she no longer went on cases. She spent a majority of her time in the finished basement, practicing her hits against the heavy punching bag, blasting music on the bulky cassette-tape player.

Her moods saw no particular increase as her ankles began to swell; like the saying went, Mary proved it true— _if Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy._

Mary was on the fence about the child—truly, another baby was the last thing she needed. It wasn't to say she wasn't happy about the impending infant; but, stronger than her happiness was the crippling fear. She was nearly forty now; how would that affect the baby? She couldn't bear it if her age contributed to an unwell child. How could she live a hunter's life if the baby was anything less than perfectly healthy?

Would the Yellow-Eyed Demon try to come for this baby, too?

How could she protect this child when she couldn't even protect her last?

 

* * *

 

He was born in September; 9/9/1990.

They named him Adam— _Adam Michael Winchester._

 

* * *

 

 

Adam was a bright child; precocious, and with a mouth to challenge his brother. His infant years were relatively peaceful, the Winchesters staying away from hunts—for the most part. Still, by the time Adam turned five, Dean was sixteen, and both were getting into equal amounts of trouble.

Adam was in the first grade—pushed ahead by mystified teachers who could not understand how such a small child could be so intelligent. Adam's reading level was off the charts, and, frankly, most of the teachers did not want to _know_ what it would look like. He went untested; it was probably for the best. Adam liked to talk, and if he was given the chance, he would have told everyone about his home reading.

His home reading in _Latin._

In an effort to keep her son out of trouble, Mary had started teaching him Latin; Adam was a voracious learner, fascinated with anything and everything, and with opinions much too loud on much too many things. Between his language study and his self-defense classes, it was a wonder he had any energy left, but he did. During these times, Mary and John settled on the living room couch, watching with tired eyes as their sons tussled on the rug. Dean had shot up like a weed, but despite the fact that he was at least three times Adam's size, Adam was not at all intimidated. He still launched himself at Dean who, even while complaining about Adam, graciously let his little brother win almost every time.

It broke Mary's heart; Dean should not have had to wait so long to know what it was to be a brother. It had been so long since the loss of Sam, and Dean had been so young—but she could see it, in his face, that he remembered.

No one told Adam about Sam. No one talked about Sam. It wasn't fair to make Adam live in the shadow of a child that had never been. It was kinder to let him go without knowing. The longer they waited, the less they wanted to tell him at all.

They didn't.

With Adam, the house started to feel a little less empty. The empty room was finally put to use. Mary refused to think that she was letting Sam go when she moved all of his old things out.

She was not letting go of Sam. She was only making a little room for Adam.

While she dealt with her own crisis, Dean was changing. He was no longer a child, nor was he an only child; he acted out. Mary understood; she did. She understood the trips to the principal's office, the after-school detentions, even the faltering grades (though those, she did not tolerate for long; she knew just how smart Dean was. He had no excuse). He was acting out, even while struggling with a double-life.

He was also dealing with a crush.

Mary had met Ellen a long time ago, back when they were both teenagers; through Bobby, they found each other again. They found confidants and allies.

Dean found Jo.

Jo was Ellen's beautiful blonde daughter, built to win with a mouth like a sailor and a temper like a rocket. She was only fourteen, and even though Dean knew Ellen would skin him alive for it, he couldn't help but fall into her razor-tongued banter. The two exchanged insults and cassette tapes, favorite bands and hand-woven hemp jewelry. Dean even passed off an AC/DC shirt that he swore was “too small” for him; _full of shit,_ Ellen had grumbled to Mary one night over a beer, watching Jo and Dean, who were crowded around the old, out-of-tune piano in the corner. _That shirt fits him just fine; he just likes seeing Jo in it, instead._

 _I know,_ Mary had replied, glancing at the back door, spying John's silhouette through the worn screen where he worked on a truck with Ellen's husband, Bill. _He'll never say as much, but he does pine over that girl._

Ellen was as irritated as she was mollified. _Well, I don't like it. She's too damn young for him—but I get it. She's a great kid. I'd be surprised if he hadn't noticed, really._

 _Never noticed anyone else_ , Mary said, and it was true. Dean had never looked twice at any other girl, even when Mary had warily pointed a few out in the hopes of sparking his interest. If he'd shown any interest in anyone at _all_ , really—but he hadn't. Not until Jo. Mary wouldn't fret over it too much; she was too busy being relieved that Dean was getting through his girl-noticing phase, misplaced (and dangerous) as his affections might prove to be.

Ellen had laughed a little at that, but Adam had burst in through the back doors, then, running to Ellen and Mary and excitedly babbling about some wild cat that lived under the foundation of the Roadhouse. The discussion had ended, but there was a certain edge that lingered in Ellen's face when she looked at Dean and Jo sitting close together, bent over the chipped keys and a worn guitar, wrapped in ripped denim and plaid flannel.

Mary thought they were a cute couple—secretly, of course. But watching Dean with Jo as the months and years passed; it was a side of her son that she'd never seen before. Their visits were few and far between, but Mary knew they talked; Dean hogged the phone more often than not, and Mary pretended not to see the letters in the mailbox.

Dean inherited the Impala when he was eighteen, after proving to John that he could rebuild it from the ground-up. He'd done that exactly; his cheering was boisterous as he grabbed his keys and a backpack, running out the door and hopping into the Impala before John could so much as protest.

“Jo,” Mary said by way of explanation.

John made a pained noise. “I hope he knows what he's doing. If he hurts her, Bill will shoot him.”

“That's only after Ellen's done with him,” Mary agreed.

“I wanna go,” Adam whined, clambering over the back of the couch to stare out the window, watching as the Impala tore around the corner and out of sight.

“Come on, kiddo,” John said instead. “Your brother's gone; whaddya say we go try out the new truck? We can get some ice cream; maybe even go to the drive-in.”

“ _Really?_ ” Adam asked, eyes-wide. It wasn't often he got his parents to himself.

“Sounds good to me,” Mary said with a smile.

Adam cheered, running off to get his shoes.

Mary tried to ignore the ache in her chest when he tore around the corner; for a moment, she could have sworn that sun-bleached blonde hair looked brown.

 

* * *

 

 

Later, Mary found out that Dean had torn off with a suit stuffed in his bag—he'd taken Jo to prom. Ellen mailed her the pictures; by the time Dean had gotten home, they were framed on the wall. His smile was blinding.

She didn't have the heart to scold him for taking off without warning.

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” Dean said one morning, staring hard into his bowl of cereal.

“So,” Mary answered, amused, from where she stood at the counter, watching carefully on the most recent batch of toast.

“You like Jo, don't you?” Dean asked.

Mary turned. “Of course; you know I love the Harvelles. Why do you ask?”

Dean shoved a particularly large spoonful of cereal into his mouth, chewing for a long time. Mary waited patiently, eyebrows raising when he swallowed hard. “Um,” he mumbled. “I don't know how to say this.”

“Try,” Mary said, her amusement beginning to falter.

“IthinkIwannaaskhertomarryme,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“I said, um.” Dean looked sheepishly at his mother before averting his eyes. “I think I wanna ask her to marry me.”

“Oh, Dean,” Mary said.

“What?” He asked, suddenly alert. “What's that for?”

“What?”

“That ' _oh, Dean_.' thing,” he said, voice sharp. “You only do that when I get in trouble.”

“Dean—”

“What?” He snapped. “Do you think I'm not good enough for her, is that it?”

“I didn't say that!” Mary exclaimed, exasperated. Her son's knuckles were white, gripped tight around his spoon, his lips pursed. “Dean,” she started soothingly. “I love Jo, you know I love Jo. I think of her like a daughter. I just—Dean, she only just turned seventeen, you know.”

“I know that!” Dean protested. “I mean—like, later. Or something.”

“Dean. Talk to me.”

Dean swallowed, looking down at the counter. “I—”

She gave him the time to gather his thoughts.

“I don't know. I like Jo a lot—I love her, I mean—and I. I mean, if I don't ask, what if someone else does?”

Mary raised her eyebrows. “Dean, you don't even have a ring.”

He mumbled something.

“What?”

“I _said_ , I've been looking at one. It's not much, but I've been saving, and—”

“Are you sure?” Mary asked.

Dean blinked up at her. “What?”

“Are you sure about Jo? You want to spend the rest of your life with her? Because that's what marriage _is_ , Dean—and I don't deny that you two obviously care about each other very much. But you're a hunter, and Jo—she's not. Not really. You'll have to be away from her for days at a time if you keep working cases like you have been. And a married couple—well, you can't live here. You'll need a house or an apartment, a proper one. Are you really prepared to be married? To settle down, to think about kids? You can barely deal with Adam half the time, these days; you can't pass off one of your own onto me and your father.”

Dean paled.

“Speaking of fathers, you know you'll have to ask Bill, right? Have you thought about that?”

“I—um.” Dean stuttered, visibly unsettled. “No?”

Mary nodded slightly. “Dean, I love you. And if you and Jo want to get married someday, you know I'll support you. But you have to do it right. There's no taking it back. Do you really love her like a wife? You have to be sure. Because even if you do, it won't be easy.” Mary smiled slightly. “It's a struggle every day for me and your father. It's a constant uphill battle, because a relationship is hard work. And I baby you, Dean; call me crazy, but I don't think Jo's the type of person to sit around and take care of anyone.”

Dean's expression fell. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”

“Dean,” Mary said quietly, walking around the island counter to embrace her distressed son. “Just because you're legally an adult doesn't mean you all of a sudden have to be a grown-up.”

He leaned his head against her shoulder, allowing Mary to smooth back his hair. “I like her a lot. And I'm not around that much—what if she finds someone else?”

“Then she finds someone else,” Mary replied simply. “There's nothing anywhere that says your first love has to be the only love.”

“Movies.”

“Movies are bullshit,” Mary replied. “Life doesn't happen like that—especially not for us. Baby, you know I love you and I'll always support you; I'm your mother. That's what I do. But I know you, Dean. You're not the type to marry right out of high school, no matter how much you love someone. You're built to travel; you never kept much stuff, barely more than you could fit in a bag. In another life, Dean, if I hadn't been here to hold you and your father down, you both would have drifted off on your own.”

“No, Mom,” Dean protested.

“Dean,” Mary said, voice soft, patting Dean's back. “You don't know how lucky we were that night.”

Dean went silent.

“You and Dad and I all could have been killed just as easily as The Demon took Sam. Taking Sam—it's not typical. It's not like a demon to let anyone live. The demon that took him is one I've been dealing with for a long time; it would have had reason to kill me. Probably should have—because now, I'm gonna tear him to pieces. But it would have been just as easy, Dean. That I have you and your father at all—I'm so lucky, Dean. So lucky.”

Dean sighed into his mother's shoulder. “I look at Adam sometimes, and sometimes—”

“Me, too,” Mary whispered. “You were so young, Dean. You're such a good brother, and I'm so sorry you didn't get to have that earlier. I never thought I'd have another child, but Adam is a blessing.”

“He's a good kid,” Dean agreed. “Too smart.”

Mary nodded.

“I'm sorry,” Dean said. “About all this. I love Jo, but—you're right. I can't settle. I guess I was hoping that by having something to tie me down, I might find a reason to stay.”

“You don't have to stay, Dean,” Mary said. “You have the Impala and you have my blessing. That car's the only lady you'll ever need; if you treat her well, she'll take you anywhere you need to go. If you find someone, someday, that makes you happy enough that you want to settle, I would be happy to see it. But you've always wanted to help people, ever since you were a kid.. Even before we started hunting.”

Dean leaned into Mary's touch, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I just—I have this feeling.”

“I know. I have it, too.”

“There's something coming.”

Mary nodded. “It won't be easy.”

“I've had these dreams—I don't know. It's confusing. But there's always someone there. I can never remember their face. Even in my nightmares, they're always there. I just—I feel like I should—”

“Then you should,” Mary said with a slight smile. “I can teach you things to help you survive out there. Most hunters don't have a home life; don't look at me like that, Dean, I'm not your typical housewife.”

“I know that!” Dean protested, but the admiring glint in his eyes never faded. “You're just; I dunno. You're a badass.”

“Well, you had to get it somewhere,” Mary agreed mildly, ruffling her son's hair with a teasing wink. “Come on. I'll show you how to make fake IDs. If you feel like sticking around long enough, you can come with us to Bobby's in a few weeks once Adam's school lets out. Bobby can set you up with some books and tech; there's something that people are starting to use called a cellular phone. It'd put my mind at ease if you took one with you.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Dean agreed.

“Good. Well, come on.” She pulled back, giving Dean's shoulder a light slap.

“Wait.” Dean grabbed her sleeve, a gesture that seemed so young with his wide, green eyes looking up at her. “Can we—can we not tell Dad about this?”

“Of course not,” she snorted. “I know he wanted you to join him at the garage. He'll be pissed for a while, but he'll get over it. Lord knows that Adam's about as old as you were when John started teaching you about mechanics.”

“Good,” he sighed in relief. “Yeah, okay.”

“Gotta promise me something, though.”

“Yeah?”

Mary gave him a level look. “When you leave from Bobby's, you gotta go right to the Roadhouse. You talk to Jo. Don't you leave her waiting around for you, okay? And you let her down nice; but that's for your sake, or Ellen'll shoot you.”

Dean nodded.

He was pale for the rest of the day.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The DeanJo song, [Safety-Pin Sweethearts](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/46313582126/safety-pin-sweethearts-twofallenkings), and the Adam song, [Adam's Lullaby](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/46313786177/adams-lullaby-twofallenkings). The first is played in the scene with Dean and Jo at the piano; the second is just a general song I wrote once I decided Adam needed one. If you listen, Adam's song echoes the DeanJo song, which worked out (and broke my heart) because I was imagining them playing him to sleep.


	19. 2:8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing a lovely new character that will get to play a really fun role in TBK! Maybe some minor gore warnings for the easily squicked, but nothing major. Huzzah! 
> 
> ~~Happy Mishapocalypse everyone!~~
> 
> Aaaaand we've passed the 50,000 word mark! Hurray!

The Impala's purr was the sweetest sound that Dean had ever heard.

The sound of the engine, the hum of the tires, the beat of the _Zeppelin_ pouring out of the speakers—the music that filled up every inch of the empty space around him.

She hadn't cried. It had almost been worse because Jo hadn't cried. Her eyes got all bright and she nodded just a little, but when she said, _I get it, Dean,_ her voice had been strong. _I'm still in high school and you've got places to go._

 _That's not it,_ Dean had argued.

_Isn't it? Dean, I'm seventeen. You're nineteen. You can drive and you've got a car and you've got a life huntin'. I get it, Dean._

_Jo, I love you, I—_

_I didn't say you didn't, Dean; and you'll always be my childhood sweetheart. I know I'll always be the same for you. But I, well. All I know how to do is hang around and run the Roadhouse. A life runnin' around; it ain't for me. I'll still be here when you want to visit, though; that's a sure thing._

_Jo._

_Dean. I know, hon. You don't have to explain it to me; I get it._

_I don't deserve you._

_You sure as hell don't._ Her smile had been soft. _Come on. I'll get you a beer on the house, some R.E.O on the jukebox, and we'll send you off in style. You best come visit me, though. And if you find yourself another girl, you bring her around to me before you bring her home to Mary; you got me?_

_Yes, ma'am._

_And if you throw out that bracelet I made you, I'll skin you alive._

_I'll take care of it 'til I die._

_Good, 'cause I worked a week getting that weave perfect before I made it._

_Don't I know it._

_Hey. Come here, Mr. Bad Boy. Give me a kiss and make it good._

_I love you._

_Yeah, Solo. I know._

Dean hated himself for it. In his head, he knew Jo was perfect. Jo was smart, Jo was a badass, Jo could outrun him and outshoot him and kick his ass ten ways from Sunday. Jo liked classic rock and Star Wars, and even if she liked pretty things, she'd be happy spending her life in denim and flannel. She was the Leia to his Solo—but Jo's home base was static. She wasn't going anywhere any time soon.

Didn't mean he loved her any less.

Maybe he even loved her more for just—for just _getting it_.

He had a trunk full of shotguns and rock salt and a glove box full of Fakes and tapes.

He didn't need anything else.

The empty space in the shotgun seat didn't feel like a missing limb; how could it? If it did, it would have been a limb he'd never had at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean's reputation quickly grew; if you needed a good hunter, a _quick_ hunter, Dean Winchester was the one to call. Unlike many hunters, Dean didn't ask for compensation; he didn't ask for money, not even for a place to stay. Dean Winchester was a drifter, like most hunters— _unlike_ most hunters, it wasn't for a lack of place to settle. Dean had a home, a _family_ ; most people suspected that his family was the reason Dean's morals leaned toward the edge of lawfulness.

Dean was careful, almost never suspected, let alone caught; he knew the right questions to ask without arousing suspicion. To the other hunters that would ask, he'd only say it was because he'd had a good teacher. He never said who, exactly—and though some people may have recognized the Winchester name from the days when they were a line of Lettermen, Dean swore up and down that he was _100% Hunter_.

He didn't act like one, though; Dean was a good kid, a smart kid. He was careful and cautious, good manners—most of the time, anyway. Around those he was comfortable with, Dean was just as foul-mouthed and aggressive as any other twenty-year-old. But to the rest, he was a hunter to trust when their kids were in trouble, a hunter to trust if they needed information. He never asked for anything in return, but he would never turn down a good meal and a cold beer, whether it be at a small-town diner, or a plastic snap-container holding a piece of cold, left-over lasagne, Dean would always say thanks, shaking off the thanks they offered in return.

He didn't call home often, just in case a monster picked up his trail; instead, he'd call Bobby, who had a secure line, who would relay the information to Mary. It was in this way that Mary tracked Dean's pattern—from what Bobby said, she'd set up a map of the country in John's study, spanning a whole wall, and each case that Dean went on, she and Adam would put a safety pin, each connected by a bit of string. Dean's face had hurt from smiling for a few hours after one particular conversation, in which Mary had told Dean about Adam's school project, where he'd calculated the miles Dean had driven that year, and then, using the old Driver's Manual that was stored in the study, had estimated Dean's _actual_ gas mileage (and had bragged how much better it was than it was supposed to be, because _my brother's smart and takes good care of his car, so she treats him nice)._ His teachers had been very impressed, and Adam had gotten his project submitted to some _National Youth Science Fair_ or something like that.

“He's ten years old and he's smarter than I am!” Dean had exclaimed through the phone, twenty-one and not even the slightest bit irritated that his baby brother's IQ was off the charts. “Must be something in the water. Year 2000—they're gearing these kids up, I swear.”

“ _Maybe it's due to your good genetics,”_ Mary replied teasingly. “You stay safe on this case, okay? Otherwise, I'll have Adam studying how long it takes you to lose your mind from your childhood bedroom.”

“Sounds good,” Dean agreed. “Shouldn't take long; I'm on the trail.”

“ _Alright. Call again soon. Stay out of trouble!”_

“My record's clear,” Dean protested. “Not even a DUI. I had a close call once or twice, but—”

“ _I don't want to know!”_

Dean laughed, mushing the half-broken speaker into his ear, idly thinking he should probably get a new phone. “Okay, Ma.”

“ _Be good.”_

“I always am.”

“ _Love you.”_

“Love _you_. Give Adam a noogie for me and tell him to shoot straight.”

“ _I will.”_

“Bye, Ma.”

“ _I'll tell your Dad you said 'hello', alright?”_

Dean hung up, only feeling vaguely guilty—he and John hadn't spoken since he'd left almost two years ago, taking with him the Impala and a necklace that Adam had given him—a small, horned head made of brass on a leather cord; ' _Uncle Bobby said it'll keep you safe'; 'thanks, kiddo, I'll take good care of it'_. John had never forgiven him for taking off in the middle of the night from Bobby's house. He'd been the only one to get irritated over it, though—Mary had known, as had Bobby; Adam was too spunky to get brought down by _anything_ for too long, and even though he missed Dean on every day that ended in _y_ , even _he_ was more mature about the whole thing than John, in Dean's opinion.

It wasn't like Dean was _gone_. He wasn't _Sam._ And if John wanted to talk to him, Dean was right on the other end of the phone line. It was _John's_ fault for not understanding Dean's need to keep moving. He was the dad; wasn't he just supposed to _know_ that sort of stuff?

Dean tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, landing on the long-term pile of news clippings, junk food wrappers, and spare shirts. It had formed early-on in Dean's permanent road trip, and though the rest of the Impala was spotless to the point of _shining,_ the monster that formed in the early days was never quite vanquished entirely. Dean humorously regarded it as his _one unsuccessful hunt._

The shotgun seat just didn't _feel_ right unless it was being occupied.

There was no one to keep him in line—no one to tell him to turn his music down, no one to complain about the sheer volume of beer he consumed, and no one to inform him just how many bacon cheeseburgers he'd eaten to date. There was no one to nag him to eat vegetables, no one to share crappy motel rooms with.

It was lonely in a way that Dean couldn't explain; couldn't even entirely understand.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean was twenty-three when the world started going ass-up.

“I dunno, Bobby,” Dean sighed, exhausted, into his brick of a cell phone. “It's weird—it feels like something's missing. I dunno what it is, but it's driving me nuts. I'm getting sloppy; I need someone to watch my back, keep me on my toes. D'ya know anyone that's looking to partner-up?”

“ _That's a dangerous game, boy,”_ said Bobby. _“Hunters don't partner, not unless they come into the game together. It ain't as easy to hunt with a partner as you would think. You need to know their brain; need to trust 'em. What you've got goin' is a good thing. You'll be fine.”_

“No, Bobby,” Dean argued. “No, I don't think so. The past month _alone_ , I've ended up with some wounds; been lucky so far, but it won't hold. _I_ won't hold, not on my own.”

“ _Don't you talk like that.”_

“I'm serious, Bobby. I need help. If Jo was on the move, I'd ask her, but—”

“— _Jo ain't goin' nowhere soon, yeah. I hear ya.”_ Bobby sighed, irritated. _“Well, I dunno. I can ask around, see who's looking—whereabouts are you now?”_

“California,” Dean answered. “Up near Jericho; just took care of a Woman in White. Nearly tore my heart out; it's bullshit, Bobby, I've _never_ been unfaithful. If shit like this is gonna start goin' sideways, if the rules are gonna shift, I need someone on my side.”

“ _Jericho, you said?”_ Bobby asked, voice going sharp. _“Not far from Stanford, then?”_

“No?” Dean frowned into the phone. “Not far, I don't think. A couple of hours, maybe. Why, what's goin' on?”

“ _Girl down near Stanford—her apartment caught fire, but she swore she was attacked. Cops checked what was left of the doors and windows, and everything was still locked. They said in her scramble to get out she nearly gutted herself on a piece of metal.”_

Dean's frown deepened. “Did she pull out of it okay?”

“ _From what I hear, yeah. They only just got her out of ICU; they had her locked up for a few weeks. She was goin' nuts about some guy with yellow eyes.”_

Dean's fist clenched; he heard the plastic casing of his phone creak. “Who is she, Bobby? What's her name?”

“ _Name's Jessica Lee Moore. I looked her up—no record, nothin' sketchy. Normal family—dead family, though. I only picked up on her case about a week ago; didn't want to say anything until I was sure. You might be well-served to go get her; see what's goin' on. In the meantime, I can look up a partner for ya.”_

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean replied shortly. “I'm on the road; I'll get back to you when I hit Stanford.”

“ _Godspeed, boy.”_

Dean's foot pressed the accelerator until the pedal was flat to the floor. Whoever this girl was, if she had seen the Yellow-Eyed Demon and _lived_ —it was very likely she needed his help.

At the very least, he needed hers.

 

* * *

 

 

“Jessica Moore?” He asked.

“Who wants to know?” asked the blonde girl in scrubs, frowning at him from her hospital bed. Even under the cheap material, Dean could see the bulge of her bandages.

He flashed his badge; “Special Agent Hendricks; FBI. I'm here to ask you a few questions about what happened on the night of October 31st.”

Jessica motioned for him to enter; Dean noticed that her room was stark, bare of any of the usual tokens from well-wishers—even from clothing items left by visiting family. He sat slowly in the chair next to her bed. “Family gone home for the night?”

“No family,” Jessica answered, giving him a suspicious look. Even though she was pale and her tightly-wound blonde ringlets were lank, she was fierce with her sneer. “Not for a long time. I thought an FBI Agent would know that.”

Dean forced a small smile. “I guess I haven't done too well on my homework.”

“Where's your partner?”

“Around,” Dean lied shortly, smile falling. “So, Jessica—on the night of your ordeal, do you remember anything strange? Flickering lights, weird smells—anything?”

The woman's face twisted. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“They can be signs that someone was tampering with the wiring of your building,” he replied, lying through his teeth. “So?”

Jessica's eyes narrowed, sharp and blue. “...the lights flickered some. I didn't think much of it. The fuses blow sometimes. I just thought it was a matter of time.”

Dean nodded. “Right, good. Jessica—”

“Jess,” she said. “Just—just call me Jess.”

“Jess, then,” Dean agreed. He leaned back in the chair, extracting a pen and paper pad from his suit pocket, jotting down the word _lights._ “ _Jess,_ earlier that day—you didn't happen to notice anyone following you, maybe? Anything abnormal?”

“No. It was a normal day; I'd gone to classes before I went out for the night with some friends; I won't lie, I was a little drunk, but like I told the cops before, I didn't even turn on any lights. I just went right in and went straight to my bedroom—I didn't touch the stove, didn't turn on the heater, _nothing_. There shouldn't have been a spark to light a fire. It doesn't make any sense. It _wasn't_ an accident.”

Dean nodded slightly, locking eyes with the surprisingly shrewd co-ed. She was young, he figured—probably only eighteen or nineteen. With a pang, he realized that she was right around Sam's age. He wondered if she would have been his type. She probably would have been; hell, if Dean wasn't working a case, she might even be his type, too.

“Do you think I'm crazy?” Jess asked, staring at him. “The nurses do. That my _injury_ was _accidental trauma_ —I promise you, I didn't do this to myself. There was a man—”

“The Yellow-Eyed Man.”

“That's right.” Jess' voice faltered; she visibly swallowed, then reached for a cup of water at her bedside. She took a slow sip, eyes averted, before she looked back at Dean. “They said I was seeing things in the fire. They all said he wasn't real. Every single one of them said that I was wrong; no one believed me.”

“I believe you, Jess,” Dean said quietly.

Jess' head snapped up. “Do you?”

“I do,” he answered, expression set. A flicker of hope crossed Jess' face; Dean felt bad for the poor girl. How frustrating must it be to have everyone telling her that she couldn't trust her own eyes? In the face of all this trauma, she should probably be half-mad. “I believe you. In fact, the Yellow-Eyed Man is someone I've been tracking for my whole career. He's ruined more lives than anyone can measure, but it's incredibly difficult to prove. We have very little information on him.”

“He's real?” Jess asked quietly.

“Real as you or me,” he answered with a nod. “But about ten times as dangerous. You don't know how lucky you are to be alive.”

Jess swallowed again, blinking rapidly; her eyes gained a slight sheen that made Dean wary—tears were above his pay grade. “He's real,” she whispered. “I'm not crazy?”

“No, Jess. You're not crazy. It would probably be easier if you were.”

Jess huffed, swiping impatiently at her eyes with the back of her hand. “He tried to kill me. Why?”

“That is not yet clear,” Dean answered in his most professional-sounding voice. “His victims are often incredibly normal—he seems to have no motive or means for choosing those he attacks. Some are brutalized. Some disappear entirely, without even a _thought_ of a trace.” His face twisted.

Jess gave Dean a long look. “Who was it? For you, I mean.”

Dean exhaled once, sharply, through his nose; he thought to ignore the question, but something made him pause. “My brother,” he said. “Stolen right out of his crib. We never found him.”

Jess let out a shuddery sigh. “I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, deflecting, “it's not a big deal. It made me want to help people, got me into crime investigation. If it weren't for him, I probably wouldn't be here to help you out.”

Jess nodded, eyes lowered.

Her silence stretched.

“Is there something else, Jess?”

She looked up, pale lips pressed together in a tight line. “I—”

Dean leaned forward, stowing his notepad. “Jess, anything you have to say, you can say it to me. Every little bit can help.”

She nodded slightly, looking again like she might cry. “I, um. The man—when he attacked me—he. He put up his hand, and I—”

“Yes?”

Jess looked down. “When he lifted his hand, he _moved_ me. He threw me into a wall. I could feel myself sliding up, and my head felt so heavy; I thought for sure I'd been drugged. But then... I just felt this _pain._ He didn't even touch me. My stomach just started to split, and it hurt so bad—I couldn't scream, but then I _did_. When I screamed, I fell. I _hit_ the _ground_. He really _did_ have me against a wall, all without touching me, and I—but _how_ could that happen?” She looked up at Dean, tears gathering on her eyelashes. “He had to have drugged me, right?”

Dean should have told her, _yes, he drugged you._ He should have said _you were in shock._

He didn't say either of these things. He said, “No, Jess. I don't think he did.” He stood, looking down at her drawn, terrified face. “Thank you. You've been very helpful.”

“Wait—” Jess exclaimed, wincing as she reached out to grab his hand. “—please. _Please_ don't leave me. I'm scared he'll come back; I've had nightmares every night. I just see him... _laughing._ No one else believes me, but _you_ do, don't you?”

Dean faltered. “I believe you,” he confirmed.

Jess' mouth worked for several long moments before she said, “Please. Please, take me with you. I'm almost ready to be checked out; I don't know where else to go.”

Dean hadn't come to get a passenger, not really; let alone an injured girl. He'd planned to call back to Bobby, have him make arrangements—but this girl... she'd survived being attacked by a demon, and she didn't even know.

There was something about her; some tough exterior wrapped around a soft inside that felt almost familiar.

Jess had no family. With these kind of hospital bills, she'd have no money left for college without _years_ of work. She'd likely be in debt for the rest of her life.

There was no life waiting for her here; not now. Not after being attacked by a demon that could return any day without warning.

“Jess—”

“I won't ask questions,” she said, voice pitched low. “I won't say anything to the doctors. You're not FBI, but you _believe_ me. Don't leave without me.”

“I—what?”

She stared at him with baleful blue eyes. “I'm not an idiot. I was going to school for _law_ , you stupid man. I've studied procedure; every single rule you've broken. You're not FBI. I doubt you're any sort of cop at all. I don't know how you found out about me, but that man, that _thing—_ I think you know what it is, because I don't think it was human. I'd get locked up if they ever heard half the things I'm scared out of my mind about. Don't leave me here to live with that life, Hendricks-whoever-you-are.”

Dean scowled, looking away; more and more complicated. “When is the soonest you can leave?”

“Technically, any time I want, if I check out against recommendation. But they're going to remove my stitches the day after tomorrow.”

“I can do that,” Dean replied, drawing Jess' incredulous look. “Don't look like that, princess; like you said, you have no idea who I am or what I do. If I was anyone else, you'd be in a ton of trouble if a Hunter decided to pick you up. Me, well—I can make sure you're taken-care of. Is there anything that's absolutely necessary you stay for?”

Jess frowned, considering. “No—I mean, painkillers. But I think I'll be okay as long as I can change my bandages.”

“Great,” he said. “So. How do you feel about skipping out?”

Jess sat up a little straighter. “When?”

Dean grinned. “How about now?”

 

 

 

 

 


	20. 2:9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're creeping steadily closer to more intense material, kiddos. Buckle up your seat belts, because it all starts going downhill from here.
> 
> I made two [new](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/46959001880/dean-jess-friends-partners-hunters) [graphics](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/46957039383/mary-winchester-wife-mother-hunter). AND I ALSO WAS JUST NOTIFIED OF A LOVELY [FANART](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/47515971504/empty-crayon-box-spoiler-y-some-fanart-for) MADE BY **empty-crayon-box** ON TUMBLR (who has since deleted their blog and thus the original post of the art! Please excuse the reblog).

Smuggling an injured girl out of a hospital wasn't nearly as easy as it sounded, and it didn't sound easy at all. Luckily, Dean was a professional.

Jess let out a pained hiss as Dean helped her into the passenger seat, impatiently pushing the shotgun-junk onto the floor. Jess was still in scrubs, which was about as unsubtle of a rush-check-out as could be. Dean helped buckle her in, already organizing his mind before he was in the driver's seat, tearing out of the driveway.

“Did any of your stuff make it out of the fire?” Dean asked, hands flexing on the wheel.

“No—just me. Barely.”

“Awesome,” Dean sighed. “Tell you what—there's a phone in the glove box. If you can get it out without tearing your guts back open, grab it; call the first number in the contacts.”

It took some struggling, but Jess managed to wiggle the phone out from under the debris—but not before she noticed Dean's handgun. “Jesus,” she whispered. “You're not a serial killer, are you?”

Dean grinned—more a baring of teeth than anything. “Not as such. Regretting your decision already?”

“You gonna kill me?” Jess retorted.

“Nah. Too much paperwork,” Dean replied; a bad joke. “No. If that's what I wanted, I wouldn't have busted you out, would I?”

“I guess,” she said, pressing a series of the keys on the phone. “It's calling.”

“Hand it here,” Dean said, holding out his hand and putting the brick of plastic to his ear. “Bobby?”

“ _What'd you do?”_

“I've got a passenger. She's gonna need some time to recover; can we crash there? I don't want her in too many shitty motels if we can manage it. Plus, you're better stocked.”

“ _You damn fool. Don't tell me you took her with you.”_

“It's not every day that someone gets away from The Demon, Bobby. She's a smart kid. I figure we can get her fixed up, maybe set her up somewhere new. The kind of bills she'd have to deal with—there's no point, Bobby. Maybe we can get her records, give her a new name, set her up at another school.”

“No,” Jess said.

Dean looked at her, seeing a pale girl with lank hair and the most stubborn expression he'd seen since Jo. “What do you mean, 'no'?”

“I mean _no_ ,” Jess said. “Whatever you're doing—whatever it is that you _do—_ I want in.”

“Well, look at that,” Dean muttered to himself. “I guess that's out. She wants to come with.”

“ _Dean,”_ Bobby warned. _“You're not prepared to train up a new recruit. She doesn't know what she's saying.”_

“She doesn't have anything else.”

A tense silence all around.

“ _Fine. Bring her here; we'll get her fixed up and outfitted.”_

Dean glanced at Jess from the corner of his eye. “Yeah, _outfitted_ —that's another thing. All her stuff was ruined, uh; clothes, too.”

Jess rolled her eyes.

Dean could practically _hear_ Bobby do the same. _“Idjit. Then you get her some clothes in the meantime.”_

“It'll be better not to stop,” Dean said. “She can wear mine; I might even have some of Jo's in the trunk.”

This got a strange look from Jess.

“ _Do what you have to. When can I expect you?”_

“Give us two days, maybe three,” Dean replied. “I'm gonna get us there as fast as I can.”

“ _Right.”_

“Hey, Bobby?”

“ _What?”_

“Don't tell my mom just yet, okay?”

Bobby grumbled; Jess stared. Then, as Dean tossed the phone onto the seat, Jess started to laugh.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean, as a Hunter, was used to a lack of modesty. It was just the way life was.

Jess, on the other hand, was not nearly so comfortable, despite Dean's best protests that he didn't care, and anything she had wasn't anything he hadn't seen before. That only earned him a surprisingly sharp slap; Dean grumbled about it for hours.

Still, he managed to convince Jess to let him help her change clothes—she wiggled into a pair of Jo's jeans that were just a little too tight on the curve of her hips, and settled on one of Dean's shirts; Jo's were too tight around the chest. She managed to get the story out of him somewhere between the three-hundred and five-hundred mile mark.

Jess was good at getting information out of people. It was almost a shame she'd never be a lawyer like she'd wanted to be.

They didn't stop for a motel the first night; Jess insisted they keep going. Dean did what he could to make her comfortable in the back seat, stretched across the bench—luckily, she was much shorter than Dean, and could fit more easily. She curled up as best she could manage without pain, Dean's heavy leather jacket draped over her torso.

Dean drove through the night, stopping somewhere around the thousand-mile mark to take a quick nap. Jess woke up only briefly; long enough for Dean to give her some strong pain pills from his stash in the back and to get knocked back out for five more hours.

In the end, it took them just over two days to get to Bobby's; however, the trip definitely took the energy out of Jess. Dean carried her in and set her on Bobby's lumpy couch, enduring the man's exasperated grumping about her state. Dean shot right back with retorts about how Bobby should retire to become a nurse; the older man took care of Jess for the better part of three days, letting her rest and keeping her hydrated.

One week after Jess had been busted out of the hospital, Bobby removed her stitches; it was the first time Dean had seen the wound. It stretched in a jagged, angry line of swollen flesh from her right-side ribcage to her left hip. Even Dean got a little nauseous—even more furious, once he realized that the hospital had thought Jess had unknowingly done this to herself.

No one could do that to themselves; not as an accident. If there was one thing Dean had absolute faith in, it was Jess' will to live.

The scar would never fade, he knew, and apparently so did she. Jess didn't bother crying over it, which was more than Dean could say for most Hunters, let alone most forcibly-retired co-eds—instead, her eyes went hard and furious. Dean knew then that, if she managed not to get herself killed in these first few weeks, Jess was going to be a terrifying Hunter. There was nothing more dangerous than a pretty girl with a sharp mind and nothing left to lose.

 

* * *

 

 

Four weeks after Jess joined the life, Dean called Mary.

The woman had given Dean a surprisingly thorough tongue-lashing before she packed Adam into her car and driven up to Bobby's. She gave Dean a short hug before she went through the house to find Jess, barely saying so much as a _hello_. Bobby and Dean shared a wary look.

Of course, the tense silence only lasted so long as it took Adam to find Dean, nearly tackling Dean off his feet with an enthusiastic hug. Adam was twelve, now, and his head almost reached Dean's shoulder; the last time Dean had seen him, Adam's head was barely above his waist. He laughed in surprise and spent the better part of the next hour playfully roughing-up with his bigger-baby brother.

That was when Mary returned and gave Dean a _real_ hug, murmuring an apology as she smoothed her hands over his hair, and saying that he'd done the right thing. The relief Dean felt was nothing like he'd ever felt; he could live every day of his life knowing that John was pissed at him, but he couldn't do the same knowing Mary was so much as _disappointed._ Her approval was a huge weight off his shoulders, as was her wholehearted acceptance of Jess.

Mary lied through her teeth to John, saying that Bobby had a new Hunter that needed training—true, but she made no mention of Dean, for which Dean himself was thankful. He wasn't ready to face John yet, not while he knew that his father was still furious for Dean taking off on his own.

The week that Mary and Adam stayed went by too quickly for Dean's liking. Mary spent a great deal of time with Jess, giving her a crash-course on The Life and helping her get set up with her own Fakes and set of weapons. It was all girl-stuff all the time, and Dean and Bobby were too happy to keep their distance.

Instead, they spent their time running Adam through the figurative gauntlet; shooting tests and endurance runs and quizzes on his knowledge of foreign languages and monsters alike. He was advancing well, in Dean's opinion—and he was one hell of a genius for a twelve-year-old. He was smart, yes, but what made more of a difference was Adam's voracious appetite for knowledge. At twelve, he was a high school freshman; the smallest boy in his class, easily, not to mention the youngest—but still the toughest.

Adam enthusiastically threw himself into each and every test that Dean gave him, wanting badly to impress his older brother—when it came time for Jess to start practical sparring, Adam was her first opponent. Small as he was, he was a good opponent for her; they were relatively close to the same level, and Adam's smaller physique translated well in comparison to Jess' untrained and weakened state. Jess grew fond of Adam in the few days that passed; she would only confess to Dean much later why that was.

They stayed at Bobby's for another few weeks after Mary had gone, working on hunts close to Sioux Falls—simple salt-and-burns, a Black Dog or two, even a particularly confused Wendigo that had wandered too-far east. Jess was singularly ruthless in her hunting; it was that quality more than anything that had them leaving Bobby's house not quite eight weeks post-Stanford.

Jess and Dean grew closer in the way that family might; they bonded through jobs well-done and beers drank while sitting on the trunk of the Impala, watching the sun set in companionable silence at the end of another day. Jess dragged Dean to stores when she deemed his clothes were too ruined to carry on any longer, made sure he made his way to a laundromat at least once every two weeks, made sure that Dean had no more than five beers at a time, made sure he didn't crash the Impala and kicked him out of the driver's seat when he was too exhausted to carry on and too stubborn to stop.

 _You're a menace,_ Dean would grumble, leaning his head back onto the bench, shooting Jess an irritated look as she settled into the Impala's driver seat, taking over the typically-day-long drives that were frequent in their new lives.

 _Someone's gotta keep you in line, Dean-o,_ Jess would reply, reaching over with one hand to turn his face away with no care for grace or girlishness; as long as Dean cooperated, she couldn't care less what he thought of her _feminine wiles_ (or lack thereof).

They shared motel rooms; doubles, despite the strange looks they got from the desk attendants that first assumed them to be a couple; when that proved false, they assumed siblings; no one could get a feel for Jess and Dean's relationship. They preferred it that way. They were partners, friends, family—not lovers, not romantic, but still intimate; Dean felt comfortable letting Jess near him when he felt weak, if only because Jess refused to let him run. Jess let Dean see the one and only time she cried, wearing only a sports bra and shorts, a hand pressed over her scar—still swollen and red, painful-looking, even if Jess swore it no longer hurt—her eyes dripping tears. He held her for a long time, letting her cry herself out. When she awoke in the middle of the night, finding Dean laying next to her—shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip—she whispered the truth:

“My family was killed when I was fifteen,” she said. “They went off the road; car crash. _Killed on impact,_ they told me. Said they didn't suffer, which was good, 'cause the car caught fire after. Maybe a deer ran out in front of them; I don't know. I'll never know. But there was barely enough of the bodies left to bury.” Jess sniffled. “I just always thought I'd be able to have a family, you know? Have kids, name them after my parents and my brother. They deserved that from me. They deserved to be remembered like that. And then that—that _damned_ demon.”

Dean reached over, giving Jess' hand a light squeeze.

“My organs were damaged in the _accident_ ,” she said, slurring sarcasm limited by the hitch in her voice. “I can't have children.”

“Jess,” Dean sighed, but found he had no other words. He could only turn onto his side, facing her, and press a brotherly kiss against her forehead. “There's always adoption, you know? There's plenty of kids that would kill to have a kickass mom like you.”

“They wouldn't be mine, though,” she said quietly. “I—I know it's awful to say something like that. And I probably _will_ adopt kids, if I make it that long. But I... I wanted kids of my own blood. My own genetics. Kids that could carry on my parents' line. I don't even have a brother to give me nieces and nephews anymore. He was so young; he didn't deserve to die. None of them did.”

“They never do,” he answered.

They held hands, laying on their backs and staring at the ceiling. They both knew the pain that came from a wrecked family because of The Demon.

“If it weren't for Adam, my family would have been traveling. When my mom got pregnant again, it was kind of like a blessing; it kept her and my dad at home. She always swore that angels were watching over me; it was kind of like they were watching over her, when it happened.” Dean sighed. “Adam doesn't know about Sam.”

Jess turned her head to look at him; she didn't say anything, just observed.

“We didn't know how to tell him, and then it just... carried on with us not knowing. By the time we thought he might be old enough to understand, we just figured it was too late.”

“Sam was your brother?” Jess asked quietly. “Your other brother; the one the demon took?”

“Yeah.”

She squeezed his hand; he squeezed back.

“There was an angel that told me once that Sam was still alive. I don't like praying, but I pray for him every day, because if he _is_ still alive—if he _is_ , Jess—I don't even want to think about what they must being doing to him.”

“An angel?”

Dean's eyes closed; he sighed deeply. “It sounds crazy, but. When I was a kid—six or seven, I'm not sure—these people broke into my house. I hid under my parents' bed while they went down to try and stop them; my dad was a soldier, and I guess my mom was a Hunter at the time, too. I was just... hiding. But I heard someone coming upstairs, and then there was someone—a woman. She told me that she was an angel; to trust her. I closed my eyes in the room, and when I opened them, I was on the roof. She told me about monsters and demons; told me about my mom being a Hunter. Told me that Sam was alive. I can barely remember most of what happened; I've never seen the woman again, though. She was there and then she was gone.”

“Do you think it's possible?” Jess asked. “Angels?”

“Why not?” Dean replied. “If there's demons—I mean, I have to hope there's something good; that there might be some sort of Heaven waiting for someone like me. There's gotta be; I mean, I still have my mom and my dad, my baby brother. That demon could have killed us all, but it didn't. We just got lucky. Real lucky.”

Jess leaned her head against his; they sat in silence, offering simple, tactile comfort.

“I think you would'a liked Sam,” Dean whispered. “I think he would'a been smart, like Adam. He probably would'a been a real pain-in-the-ass. I wish he could'a had a chance to grow up; to go to school. Maybe he could'a gone to Stanford; you two could'a been friends, maybe more. He'd've been nineteen, now, like you.”

“You'll get him back,” Jess assured him.

“I'm not so sure,” he replied. “And even if we do—can you imagine what almost twenty years with The Demon would do to a person? 'Cause I sure as hell can't. He'll be broken in one way or another.”

“Or maybe he won't. Maybe he takes after his family; y'all are stubborn. Maybe he could've held out.”

“Held out for twenty years of torture?” Dean asked incredulously. “I can barely imagine holding out for a few weeks. I'd rather just die.”

“It's different when it's you, I'd have to think,” Jess replied. “I don't think you'd give in. You have so much to fight for.”

“He was so young, Jess; what could he have to fight for?” Dean's voice went bitter. “He was six months old. He won't remember us. He might not even remember what it's like to be human.”

“Then you'll do what you have to.” Dean looked at her. Jess stared back. “Dean, I think I can say I know you fairly well. You'll do everything you can to save your brother, but I think if push comes to shove and he really _is_ broken, it might be kinder to... not make him live that way.”

Dean grit his teeth, but he didn't argue. Jess was right.

“Yeah...maybe.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jess was the best hunting partner Dean could've hoped for. She was smart, she had a sharp wit, and she challenged Dean. She pushed him, but she knew when to say when. They were a good team.

Dean turned twenty-four. They were no closer to finding The Demon.

And then John Winchester died.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	21. 2:10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap on your bonnets, kids.

Dean left the keys to the Impala on the island counter in the kitchen, the paperweight to a folded note that read:

 

> _Adam,_
> 
> _Take care of her or I'll haunt your ass._

He snatched an apple from the fruit bowl that Mary kept by the back door—a snack for the road, he figured. After all, Dean wasn't sure how far he'd have to walk outside of Lawrence to find a crossroads.

He built the tribute box out of one of John's old chewing tobacco tins—a handful of the dirt taken from over his dad's grave, the bone of a black cat, his high school graduation photo, dried yarrow—and hoped for the best from what was probably a lost cause. Dean didn't want much—some people got ten years, he'd learned on a case out in the midwest with Jess.

Hellhounds. Funnily enough, the phrase _sold your soul at the crossroads_ wasn't too far off.

Dean didn't want ten years, though. He knew he wouldn't get them; maybe if John was dying, but John was already dead. That'd take more... more _something._

Dean lost track of how long he walked; probably at least ten miles. That was fine. He needed the time to gather his thoughts.

He was going to die. He was walking to his death—literally. _Voluntarily._ After five years of hunting, he was going to give himself up without a fight. The thought made his stomach turn; even worse was the thought that his family might never know what happened to him.

He'd see if he could negotiate that, at least.

Somewhere about two hours out of Lawrence, Dean stopped walking. He turned in the middle of the crossroads—deserted.

Time was up.

He scuffed some gravel away with the toe of his boot, crouching once it was deep enough to push the mass of stones to the side. He dug deep enough that the box would stay buried in spite of winter and self-run plows; he hoped, anyway. His fingernails were cracked and bleeding sluggishly by the time the hole was recovered.

Dean stood and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

“Oh, come on!” Dean roared at the sky after a solid ten minutes of silence, unbroken and solitary. “What, you can't even hear me out, you dicks?”

“That's not very nice,” said a voice from behind him, drawling and seductive.

Dean whirled around, meeting the blood-red eyes of a woman standing on the corner. She was pretty—blonde hair and curvy—but her allure was cut by the knowledge that the skin she wore did not belong to the monster within.

“Who's that you're wearing?” Dean asked, lip curled to bare his teeth in a sneer.

“You don't like her?” Asked the demon, putting on a cutesy pout. “What a shame. I chose her just for you, Deanie. I thought this was your _type?_ ”

Dean resisted the urge to gag. “I don't have a type when it comes to stinking bags of rot like you.”

“You sure know how to flatter a girl,” replied the demon, amused. She sauntered forward, teetering on skinny high heels, prowling in a circle around Dean. “Well, well. You're just _edible_ , aren't you?”

“Get on with it,” he snapped. “Don't you want to hear what I want?”

“I know what you want, Deanie,” the demon said, coming to a stop in front of him, hands perched on her hips. “You want your dear old D-A-D, up and kickin'. Isn't it funny? You didn't speak to him at all for the last five years of his life, and now you're willing to swan-dive down for him? Color me intrigued.”

“It's none of your business,” he retorted.

The demon started her slow circling again. “Isn't it? After all, you're going to ask me to bring him back up for you.”

“What do you mean, _back up?_ ”

“Turn of phrase, Deanie. You're asking me to pull him out when he's already pushing daisies. That's not quite as easy as saving someone that's on their way out.”

“I figured it wouldn't be.”

The demon hummed, an offhand affirmation, stopping behind him. Cold hands curled over his shoulders and sticky lips brushed his ear. Dean shuddered, but in something very far from pleasure. “So what are you gonna offer me, Hunter? You better make it good.”

“What; I'm not enough?” Dean demanded.

“You've had a hand in a demon or two heading back under; didn't you think that maybe they were up for a reason?”

“Don't know, don't care.”

“Your macho-man condition isn't endearing you to anyone important, Deanie. I've half a mind to turn you away right here and now.”

Her nails scraped against his flesh as she pulled her hands away; Dean spun and grabbed her wrist. “Wait.”

She chuckled. “I thought so.”

“All I've got is me,” Dean said quietly. “But I won't ask for ten years. Give back my dad, and you can have me right now. I only have one request.”

“And that is?”

“Don't leave me here by the side of the road. Take my body back to my family.”

The demon sneered. “Trickery; you won't get me to set foot on that hallowed land if you had a hot poker at my back.”

“I'm not asking you to put me on my living room couch,” Dean snapped. “Just take me home.”

She narrowed her eyes, bloody-red, and tapped a finger against gloss-slicked lips. “Well, Deanie—you've got me hooked.” Dean felt a short thrill of victory. “Unfortunately, it's not up to me.”

Dean stared, simmering rage building up in his throat until it forced its way out. “What do you mean, it's not up to you? Aren't you head honcho of the crossroads?”

“Well, yes,” she said, smiling faintly. “But that doesn't mean I'm in charge. I don't make the decisions 'round these parts—and who am I to deny the order _do not meddle in the affairs of Winchesters?_ It won't just be taken out of _your_ hide if I disobey. Girl's gotta look out for herself.”

“Come on,” Dean said, close to begging. “I'm willing to give myself up without a fight. Isn't that worth _something?_ ”

Her smile widened; between one blink and another, the demon was gone.

Dean stood in shocked silence; he spun around, heart thundering as he searched desperately for the figure of the demon woman, but she was gone. He dragged his hands over his face. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered, dread pulling at his gut. “Shit. Fuck.”

He'd failed.

“ _Damn it!_ ” Dean snarled, kicking a wave of sharply-edged pebbles in his fury. “You backstabbing sons of bitches! I swear I'll hunt each and every one of you down! Can't even follow through on a simple fucking deal, is that it? You'll get yours and I'll be glad to see it happen as I send every single one of you back to Hell!”

“Whoa, there. You might want to get a handle on that temper. I s'pose Hell might do you some good, after all. Teach you some respect for your betters.”

Dean whirled and found himself face-to-face with the demon; he took a step back in shock. “What—?”

“I'm not gonna risk my hide for a deal without running it by the boss,” she said, quirking one finely-shaped eyebrow. “What do you take me for? I'm a star employee.”

“And?” he demanded.

“And, you impatient whelp,” she replied, finally losing her good humor. She scowled at him. “ _And_ , they said they'll go for it—just for you. It's not every day that I go about hauling souls up and around. This is a one-time sort of thing; you're lucky you caught him on a good day.”

“Who?” he demanded. “That Yellow-Eyed bitch? I bet he'd be glad to get his hands on me.”

The demon was the one to recoil this time, protesting with a vehement hiss. “He would have your guts on a platter before you thought to draw the gun in your waistband, _human_ ,” she spat. “But I'm not talking about him. I'm talking about the King.”

Dean's eyes narrowed. “The King? I thought the Yellow-Eyed Demon was the head honcho—you're telling me he's not even the guy in charge?”

The demon crossed her arms haughtily. “He was our Regent once—thousands of years ago, before the Boy King came to his once and future throne. But, no. Azazel is not our King. He is only the King's most trusted general.”

“Boy King? Didn't you just say he got promoted a few thousand years ago?”

“Time moves differently for us; moves differently still for the King, alone.” The demon tilted her head, blonde waves of hair falling over her shoulder as she peered at Dean. “I think that's quite enough. If you want to know about the King, you will have to see for yourself. Make the deal and you'll know soon enough, won't you, Dean Winchester?”

Dean swallowed. “What do I have to do?”

“It's simpler than you'd think,” she said, shark's smile firmly back in place. “Seal the deal with a kiss. Your father will rise and you will take his place. You have my word that I'll bring your body as close to home as I am able.”

He hesitated, waiting for the catch—aside from the fact that he was voluntarily dying. Was it really that simple?

“Well?” She demanded. “I don't have all night, Deanie. I've got places to go, people to see, souls to buy and debts to collect.”

“Alright,” Dean said quietly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Great,” she said cheerily, sauntering toward him. “Pucker up, Prince Charming.”

She caught his jaw with her plastic fingernails, yanking him toward her like her fingers were hooks and he her reluctant catch. The kiss was pleasant, but the lack of any sort of enjoyment made it feel about as good as the dread in Dean's stomach.

Something was wrong. Why would the King of Hell agree to do Dean a favor?

The demon pulled away, licking her lips lasciviously. “It's done.” Her nails pinched harder at Dean's jaw. “What a fool you are.”

Dean made a noise of protest.

She laughed in his face. “Do you really think a demon could drag a soul from Heaven? The only reason you're getting your father back is because he was ours to give. John Winchester didn't have a heart attack—he made a deal.”

“No,” Dean hissed. “He wouldn't.”

“Wouldn't he?” crooned the demon. “Not even if we told him that if he went to Hell, Sam would return?”

Dean was horrified. “But he didn't return,” Dean said through clenched teeth. “It's been a month.”

“That's the problem, Deanie,” said the demon. “He _never_ said we had to return him immediately. And now his deal is broken.” She patted his cheek with mock-affection. “Thank you for that. Now, if you'll come with me, I've got a soul to gather.”

The demon lay both her hands on Dean's chest; he immediately felt cold seeping through his body.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Famous last words,” replied the demon, ignoring his question. “Now's the time.”

“Fuck you,” he spat.

His vision faded—something felt like it was ripping—he screamed—

Dean didn't stop screaming for a long time.

 

 

 

 

 


	22. 2:11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very violent chapter. Major warning for blood and guts and other gross stuff. But there's a meeting that a lot of people have been waiting for. Enjoy. 
> 
> WARNING: This might be triggery for some people, it was meant to stay ambiguous, but it was never my intention to add an assault that's anything other than strictly physical torture without any other things. As far as TBK canon, Dean was only ever tortured WITHOUT a sexual aspect. Repeat, there was no intended implications of non-con, but don't take that to mean it won't affect him deeply. 
> 
> Good luck.

Hell was even worse than it sounded.

Dean didn't know what he expected; maybe a little red man poking him with a rusted trident for all eternity. But even eternity was different in Hell.

There was no Devil as Dean was familiar with the concept—there was only Alastair.

The demon twisted himself into some vague human shape, but his appearance was always less than desirable; ruddy complexion, yellow teeth, watery eyes, the whole deal. He was revolting in looks alone, but his personality made his aesthetics seem godly.

He had Dean strapped to a rack—that was the only way Dean could describe it. There were jagged edges that pierced his flesh, rusty bits that crumbled against his fingernails as he scratched desperately at the metal. Dean got used to not having fingernails, after a while.

He got used to a lot of things, but they didn't make it suck any less to be intimately acquainted with the sensation of not having vocal chords or fingers or eyes. It didn't make the ritualistic stripping of his flesh any less painful. It didn't make being gutted any less horrifying.

At the end of most days, Alastair would lick the blood from the blade of his knives and ask Dean if he wanted a go—said that if he did, Dean would be taken off the Racks, as long as he put another soul on.

The first day Alastair offered, Dean managed to gurgle, “Go to Hell,” through the blood.

Alastair leaned over him with putrid breath and a discolored smile. “I was hoping you'd say that,” he said. “And baby, I'm already there.”

He didn't ask for a second time until a week later.

Time and time again, Dean turned him down—but he didn't know how long he could keep it up.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes Alastair had help.

Dean screamed and screamed and screamed.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean was deep in his headspace when he overheard the conversation.

“How goes it, Alastair?” Asked the first voice.

“Slowly,” said the demon. “But I believe we're making progress, slowly but surely. He's more stubborn a bitch than I imagined.”

“Well, make haste,” said the first voice again, impatient. “The King has the garrison held off at the Second Level, but it's taken them ten years to get even that far. They have no idea that it's only a tenth of our forces—the best soldiers remain in the Sixth Level, lying in wait.”

“Will he stay on the front lines long?”

“No, I won't allow it. If he stays much longer, he'll risk being identified.”

“He would allow you to pull him back?”

“He has no choice. He is still my son, and he will see the stupidity in his reliance on the bloodlust. We need him here with the Hounds.”

Dean's eyes opened sluggishly; he blinked at the myriad of red and brown and sulfur that swarmed his senses. The pain dulled everything, but he knew this was something worth his interest.

“His eyes are open,” said the second voice suddenly. “Is he aware?”

“I doubt it. I've worked him over from head to toe twice in the past six hours. His soul is still healing; still heals the right way, no sign of warping.”

“Work harder, Alastair,” said the second voice. “If any harm comes to the King, I'll have _you_ on the Racks, and I'll hold the blade.”

“As you wish, Lord Azazel.”

A face came into Dean's sight; a smug grin and yellow eyes consumed his entire field of vision. Dean felt the welling of cold, brutal hatred enough to justify the stupidity that followed—

—he spat in the demon's face.

As it turned out, Alastair didn't feel quite _that_ averse to waiting.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Dean considered taking up the knife, he wished he had one if only so he could cut out his own heart.

He was never going to let that happen.

He wasn't going to be like _them._

 

* * *

 

 

Dean learned more about the human body in twenty years of Hell than he did in all of high school.

Go figure.

 

* * *

 

 

When Alastair figured out that torturing Dean was more effective when he was made to watch the torture of others, everything escalated. Dean's eyes were forced open as blades dipped into—well, what _appeared_ to be flesh—and eyes pleaded with him long after tongues had been cut out.

 _I couldn't stop it if I wanted to,_ Dean thought desperately. _There's nothing I can do._

It didn't take long for him to stop believing it.

After that, it was only a matter of time until he started to consider if the consequences might just be worth escaping the pain.

 

* * *

 

 

“Is that him?” asked a new voice.

It was Dean's twenty-ninth year in Hell. He'd been here for four years more than he'd been alive. By all measures, Dean was fifty-three years old, and he'd never felt more exhausted. He didn't even turn his head to look—not that he could, since his eyes were still little more than blood and goo.

“That's him,” Alastair's voice agreed.

“Well, he's in a state. I've never seen this level of brutality, even from you.”

Alastair's voice was tinged with pride when he responded, “He's my favorite pet project, that Dean Winchester.” There was a pause, and then, “How's the front?”

“Boring,” the voice drawled, surprisingly informal and sounding rather young. “The garrison is held back at the Third Level; it's slow progress for them and entirely on our schedule, but I doubt they know that yet. I figure they'll catch on once they hit the barricade.”

“Have you chosen the one you'll allow through?”

“Not as of just yet. There are a few particularly stubborn seraphim that have retained hope, but they dwindle. We can't outright kill many of them—the only thing that can kill them is another one of them; or, rather, their swords. Demons aren't supposed to be able to touch the blades, after all, so I have to abide by their rules or risk my cover.”

“I'd imagine it's frustrating.”

“Infuriating,” the voice spat.

Dean blinked his mangled eyelids. _Abide by demon rules? Risking cover?_ What exactly was the guy that he had to _pretend_ to be a demon?

Then— _seraphim?_

_...angels?_

“I'm exhausted of hiding; Heaven deserves _his_ fury—and mine.” There was a soft swish, not unlike the sound of fabric. When the voice spoke up, it was cold and hard. “You have one year, Alastair. Do not disappoint me, or I will be sure to pay you back in full for my time spent under your hand. Turnabout's fair play, isn't it? Five hundred years sounds about right. You and the Righteous Man can become commiserative companions.”

The voice did not speak again.

Dean's torture resumed twofold.

 

* * *

 

 

Later in what Dean assumed was the same day, the encounter still haunted him. His world was still made of dark and pain; Alastair seemed to favor depriving Dean of his basic senses.

 _Five **hundred** years of torture? _Dean's breath shuddered out of him at the thought. How could anyone or any _thing_ endure five hundred years of torture without becoming a demon? What _was_ he? Dean gnashed his teeth; _if only I could've seen him._

Then, softly near his ear, the voice said, “I know you can hear me, Dean Winchester.”

Dean jerked, an instinctive bid for distance between him and the creature that was terrifying, even only in the lack of sound it made.

“What are you?” Dean wheezed through his broken throat.

“You're a curious thing, aren't you? I suppose you don't like being tied up; free spirit as you are. There's an easy way out of this, Dean. You won't have to hurt anymore; you have my _word_.”

“Why should I trust the word of a monster?” Dean hissed. It didn't matter if the voice— _he_ , Dean decided—sounded human. Only a monster could hold rank over Hell. If it was a monster, Dean was obligated to kill it.

“I'm not nearly as monstrous as you think,” the voice replied. He sounded... _tired._ Frustrated. Beseeching. Dean wouldn't fall for it; wouldn't fall for the soft, young voice of a creature that, he was _sure_ when he saw it, would look as terrible as it had to be. “I'm very much like you.” Dean snorted; the voice made a soft sound of amusement. “I know you don't believe me, Dean. Why should you? You don't know me; you can't even see me. But I know a lot about you. I know that you're a Hunter; you roam, wander as you please, and you help others while asking for nothing in return. I envy your freedom, Dean. Your anonymity. You live such a simple life, but it sounds so fulfilling.”

“You talk nice for a creature,” Dean croaked. “How many people have you killed?”

“None,” the voice answered. “Unless you count demons. I've only ever killed those that tried to kill me first; those that would have seen me dead before I took the throne. But I've never killed a human. I've never even been outside of Hell—this is my home; I was brought here when I was very young.”

“How do you expect me to believe that?” Dean whispered; nice words, for sure, but he wouldn't believe this _innocent_ act that was coming from the King of Hell.

“I don't, Dean. You're not one to believe anything you can't see for yourself. You will see, in time, I hope. I think we could be friends, Dean. I think there's a lot we could do to help each other.”

“Fuck you!” he snarled. Dean strained against his bonds, wishing he could claw at the quiet, sympathetic voice, even if he couldn't see it. He wanted it to _hurt_. “You and your demons have killed left and right. You've ruined families; ruined _my_ family!”

“I know,” said the voice quietly. “But that was long before my rule. What happened to your brother—that was not my doing. I don't know what happened to him. That was during the rule of my father, not mine. I swear it.”

“Your father? What about _my_ father? He was _tricked_ by _your_ demons—he was _promised_ that my little brother would come back to our family if he went to Hell. That wasn't before, that was _now._ Your demons are _liars_ —my brother never came home!”

To the voice's credit, he sounded confused. “Who told you this? I was not aware.”

“The crossroads demon!”

“I will look into it. My sentries do not make fraudulent deals; the one responsible will be punished, I assure you.”

“I don't want your assurances! I don't want your damn promises! I want to go home.” Dean's voice cracked. “I just—I'm tired. I want to go back home.”

“Dean,” he said. “Dean, you _can_ go home.”

“No,” Dean whispered. “I can't. I made a deal for my dad; they needed him. Me for him; that was the deal.”

“It doesn't have to be like that. All of your problems can end here.”

Dean snorted. The voice did not reply at first; it waited. The silence wore on Dean's nerves. It didn't take long for a weak flutter of hope to make a tiny spark. “Say I believed you,” Dean said warily. “And I don't. But if I did... how?”

“Pick up the knife, Dean. That's all you have to do. Let Alastair become your teacher instead of your torturer.”

Dean's stomach churned. “No, I can't do that.”

“It would be so simple,” the voice said quietly, wonderingly, “for you to give in. But you refuse; why?”

“I won't be like you,” he whispered. “I won't become like your demons.”

“I don't want you to be a demon,” the voice said, laughing shortly. “You're an interesting human; I want to learn more about you—more than what I know. Humans are strange creatures to me. I've been conditioned to hate them—but you're all so ingenious. And then there's humans like you—you're not destructive at all. You _save_ people. You have a family; a mother, a father, a brother, people you look up to and respect. I've got a father and a sister. I don't have friends, because it isn't a King's place to be friends with his subjects, but I have tutors who have taught me language and strategy and how to fight, just like you. I, too, have been undone at Alastair's hand more times than I can count. I don't think we're so different at all.”

“Why would a King be tortured? What's the point of that?”

“I was young, a long time ago. I was stubborn and pompous and furious. Pain taught me control, which is absolutely vital for any sort of sovereign. It taught me to guard myself well. It taught me to fight capture at all costs, even when the torture I underwent was ordered by my superior. I didn't understand it until later, _much_ later, but I do now.”

“Who's superior enough to order torture on a King?” Dean pulled again at his bonds. “Let me guess—it was that Yellow-Eyed bastard?”

“Have care with your tone,” the voice reprimanded firmly. “That _is_ my father you speak of. But, no, it was _not_ he that ordered it.”

“Then who?”

“It isn't relevant to this conversation,” said the voice dismissively. “It doesn't matter who ordered it. What I'm trying to tell you is that I know your pain, and I know that, at this point, you would do just about anything to end it. Why don't you? All you have to do is say _yes_ to Alastair. He will let you heal. He'll let you off the Racks. He'll teach you his trade—it's a good deal, Dean. We can be allies; friends, even. You don't need to become a demon; you don't need to become my subject. We can be equals. And when I leave Hell—and I _will_ be leaving Hell—I can bring you with me. You can return to your family. All I ask is your allegiance.”

Dean let out a shuddery breath—could it even be true? That the King would return him to his family, even spare him pain and torture if Dean tortured in return? Could Dean give up on a lifetime of saving people on Earth so he could spare himself by torturing others in Hell?

All Dean felt was dread and reluctance when he whispered, “I can't.”

“Noble,” said the voice, though he sounded almost disappointed. “That's okay. I respect that; you must follow the path you believe in, of course. My offer will stand, though, Dean—if you change your mind, all you need do is say so.”

“Why are you doing this?” Dean asked. “Why are you making me any sort of deal? I made my choice; I chose my fate. Why are you trying to help me?”

“I think we can help each other,” the voice replied. “If you would _let_ me help you, that is.”

“Why do you want me to torture souls? What—does it give you a sick thrill?”

The voice sighed quietly. “It's not something I can explain, but it's vital that it comes to pass. I'll take my leave, now, I think. But consider my offer, Dean.”

He left then, and Dean was alone in his blind darkness.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	23. 2:12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Another very violent chapter ahead, including arguable implications that can be taken in any particular way. Trigger warning for possible implied threat of sexual assault, but no assault ever occurs, nor is the threat explicitly about assault. Take it as you will. The violence here is **much** more violent, but things will start getting better from here. Next chapter promises an interesting confrontation.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's left kudos and comments! I really love seeing all your theories, it really makes my day, and I do my best to reply to them all. 
> 
> Friendly reminder that we're very near to the end of Part Two—there are two remaining chapters after this one, and I'm quickly catching up to myself for what I have written, plus I have a commissioned thing to write. On top of finals and projects and an impending move, I'm extremely busy right now, so I don't see any Maybe!verse or Nine!verse installments coming out soon. After Part Two is finished being posted, I may take a week or two off to give myself some time to recover and work on Part Three more extensively. I'll need more planning time for that one. I hope you understand, and I'm giving you some warning in advance.
> 
> tl;dr. Happy reading!

This year passed more slowly than the rest—the thirtieth. Thirty years in Hell. One way or another, something was going to give, though; whether it was Dean or Alastair, he wasn't sure.

But Alastair stopped being kind. He stopped letting Dean recover, instead taking him down to body parts and then to cells. Dean never passed out; couldn't. No matter what they did to him, he was alive. Even if he managed to die, it was only a matter of time before he wasn't, his soul starting to heal itself in double-time.

His soul started making mistakes.

His fingernails started coming back permanently blackened, ruined, rotted. Slowly this blackening started to spread into his fingertips, just as it started discoloring the soles of his feet.

The day his irises turned black, Alastair showed him in reflection of a knife. He gave Dean just enough time to gasp in horror before he shoved the blade through his eye-socket.

They were both wearing thin; though Dean's eyes still retained his white scleras, he knew his time was limited. And if he turned full-demon, there would be no coming back.

He wouldn't become like them. He wouldn't wake up one bloody day as something different with only the thought of murder and revenge on his mind.

But Dean never begged. He never asked Alastair to stop; he made his choice. He was here because he chose it, and begging for mercy wasn't an option.

Not until Alastair flayed open his chest and showed Dean his beating, blackened heart.

“How about that?” Alastair crooned, smarmy and pleased despite the sunken state of his white eyes, just as restless as Dean. “Black eyes, black heart, kiddo. You'll be one of us in no time.”

“I won't,” Dean wheezed, averting his eyes from the expansion of his discolored lungs. “No.”

“I'll break you,” Alastair hissed in return.

He gashed up Dean's organs, filling the cavity of his abdomen with salt that had no right to burn the way it did. Dean howled.

“More demon than human, now, Dean-o!” Alastair shouted over Dean's screams. “I've got new toys just for you. Salt, holy water, iron; what do you think? Where's your God to save you?” Alastair grinned a disgusting grin and poured holy water into Dean's gaping mouth, watching as he sputtered and gagged and his gums began to bleed.

“If you don't give in,” Alastair said. “I'll get someone else. Your brother, maybe. How do you think tender little Adam will stand up against knives and wires and hooks? Maybe I'll let the other demons play with him, some. No point in that with you, I don't think. You're a vanilla-torture kind of guy, I can tell.”

“Don't you touch him!” Dean snapped, spitting his blood out and ignoring the burn as it slid down his cheek, red-tinged holy water making his skin sizzle.

“Don't mind if I do.” Alastair leaned down into Dean's face. “If you don't say _yes_ before this year is up, it won't just be these screaming bitches. I'll have your brother strapped up right in front of you, let you watch—and when you turn for good, I might even let you help me.”

Dean's stomach churned with bile and salt and holy water. He wanted to vomit. “No.”

“Suit yourself,” said Alastair. “I'll make a stew of your guts in the meantime.”

More holy water, more salt, more cuts to the surface of his intestines and his lungs and his heart, drowning but never dying. Dean was liquidizing with salt and water. He was so twisted already that his own sort of tools were ruining him.

The agony built until Dean couldn't do anything but scream, but for once, he kept his eyes—he watched as his guts turned to red and yellow and black and brown, goo and chunks of flesh and bubbling filth, all held together by the thin veneer of Dean's skin. It was only when his lungs melted away that Dean's screams faltered, the liquid filling the air sacs and flooding up his throat until it was all he could taste.

Blood and filth. It was all that was left of Dean.

The things he would do to tear Alastair apart—to get the _chance_ to tear Alastair apart like this. Dean would do anything.

_Anything._

 

* * *

 

 

He broke in the final days of the final year. Alastair was carving Dean's shame into his ribs, the names of everyone he ever loved, everyone Alastair swore he would personally flay before Dean's blackened eyes, all with a red-hot knife with runes etched into the blade.

“Borrowed this special,” whispered Alastair. “Just for you. This is the only blade that can kill a demon; only Hell-made weapon to ever taste the blood of our own. And you're becoming one of ours, aren't you?”

Dean didn't answer. Couldn't. Just screamed as Alastair scraped the curve of an _a_ at the end of _Jessica_.

“Sweet little Jess. Pretty little Jo. Sweet, soft Adam. Mother Mary and Papa John. All of them, Dean—I'll have them all.”

His body was riddled with holes and punctures, cuts and lacerations, gouges and rips. Dean could barely retain the form of human. Could barely be called human.

Alastair shaved off a thin layer of bone from Dean's ribs and thrust it though his aorta; blackened blood sprayed Dean in the face, and Alastair crowed with triumph.

Black blood. So much blood. All Dean could see was the vague shape of bodies, gray matter sprayed all over their living room floor, blood saturating a rug that was once white. Dean's lashes fluttered; it was childish fear, but it was effective.

Blood and bodies. Bodies and blood.

Dean was little more than a pile of rotted meat anymore.

When he stared to scream, his eyes leaked in tandem; blood-tinged tears that made his eyes hiss faintly with his natural salt.

His screams formed a word, but Dean didn't know what it was; only that it was on an endless loop of feedback and that he couldn't stop, even as Alastair drew back, even as that cursed knife clattered to the rock ground that hissed as the heat boiled Dean's blood.

Dean screamed again and again and again like he never had before.

_Stop_ , he screamed. _Stop._

_I'll do it._

 

* * *

 

 

The pain stopped. For hours, Dean stopped hurting; naturally, he was wary, especially as a woman came to his side and started to unbuckle his cuffs. He lashed out at her like an animal, looking to _hurt_ —she made an angry noise and scolded him with meaningless words that made no sense to his poisoned mind.

“I'm trying to help!” snapped the woman, small and blonde and pouty and aggravated, fingernails colored bright red and vicious. She almost looked human—if Dean hadn't known better, he might have believed it. “Do you want off the Racks or not? I'm just trying to get you out of here; _Christ._ ”

“Why?” Hissed Dean.

“You said yes,” said the girl with a shrug. “King's orders; you say yes, he'll let you fix up.”

“I—” Dean recoiled. “I didn't—” But he did, didn't he? Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered swearing to hurt others in exchange for his own freedom from pain.

Another part of him didn't regret it at all.

“Who are you?” he asked instead.

“Ruby,” she replied. “Just call me Ruby. Well? Are you gonna let me get you out of here, Princess?”

“Where are you taking me?”

She rolled her eyes; they flickered to black. “Does it matter? Anywhere's better than the Racks. Being here is giving me the creeps.”

Dean couldn't help but agree. He let the woman help him before he noticed the veritable army-supply of bandages holding his guts in. Compared to his usual pain, this was almost nothing.

“I gotta say,” Ruby said, “I didn't think you'd give in. I thought you'd go full-smoke, but I think we're all pretty pleased that you held it together for long enough to stay human. I mean, you're halfway to being us—but that'll change, you know? You'll fix yourself up a little bit. There'll be scarring, but you'll make it as a human. You're beyond lucky.”

“I'm not human,” Dean scoffed. “Just promised to kill my own kind to spare myself, didn't I?”

“Yeah, and most humans would take that deal in a heartbeat without getting so much as a black spot,” Ruby replied, hooking her arm around Dean's waist to help him walk. “That sort of morality's rare in saints, let alone humans.”

“I'm no human and I'm no saint,” Dean disagreed.

“Whatever you say, Princess Preacher,” Ruby drawled. “I'm just sayin'.”

Dean grunted, stumbled some; Ruby held him up. She was much stronger than she looked. “So, what now?”

“We're bringing you to the lesser quarters, just 'til you heal up some. Once you're all good, you'll start learning under Alastair; maybe under his other pupils, too.”

Dean made a noise of disgust. “Alastair.”

“You and me both, Princess,” Ruby said in agreement. “Alastair's the worst kind of scum; even the King doesn't like him. Just keeps him around because Alastair's been here for tens of thousands of years; since biblical times, they say. Plus, Alastair's one of the Lords; the Seventh Level's his, and replacing a Lord is a pain in the ass.”

“How?”

“Well, Lords look over their whole Level, right? There's at least eight—some say there's nine, but.” Ruby adjusted Dean's weight. “If there is a Ninth, the King and the Regent are the only ones to have been. They say there's something down there, something big.”

“What is it?”

“No one knows.”

“Some help you are,” Dean replied with a quiet snort. “So, that King guy—what is he?”

Ruby gave Dean a strange and sidelong look. “What do you mean, _what is he_? What do you think he is?”

“Well, he isn't a demon, I know that much. So, come on—what kind of monster is he?” Ruby released him and Dean tumbled to the ground; he hissed angrily, baring his teeth at the demon. “What's your problem?”

“Do not speak of my king in that way,” Ruby snarled. “He is a good and kind man, a far kinder sovereign than Hell deserves. Hell under his rule is more peaceful than the world I came from when I was alive. I watched him grow myself. I helped to teach him the things he knows. Don't you dare insult him, or all of Hell will have your head on a pike.” Dean recoiled; Ruby loomed over him, beetle-black eyes narrowed furiously. “He won our allegiance one at a time, even when he owed us nothing. He's only ever struck out at those that did so first. You've only ever seen the worst of Hell—the human side. But for the demons... this is as close to Paradise as we've ever been. Many still seek death and destruction, but they seek it in his name. You have no idea the kind of man he is, Dean Winchester—none at all.”

“Fine,” Dean snapped dismissively, cradling one brutalized arm close to his body. “Sing your praises, I don't care.”

“You'll see,” Ruby insisted, her head tilted to look at him curiously. “Now that you're on his side, the _right_ side, you'll see. There was a time that the torturers were just as unfortunate as the ones under their hands. Thank whatever god you praise that you never lived to see those days.” With that, Ruby crouched to get her arm back around Dean, hauling him up with deceptively little effort. “Alright, come on. You need to help me out with this; you're not as light as you look, even with half of you hacked away.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

Ruby rolled her eyes, but was quiet as she helped him out of the minefield of Racks, tens or hundreds of souls strapped up to be tortured, some no longer even looking human. He wondered if he'd looked like that. It made him sick to think about.

The ground sloped downward, if only slightly, and it was at a lower point of this slope that Ruby brought him to, where a building sculpted from brown and red stone was carved into being. Inside lounged several demons, most of which maintained a human shape. Some sat solitary in their respective nooks, but the majority sat in a group in the center of the floor, wagering weapons in a game played with dice that looked like—and probably were—carved bone. They cackled and jeered at each other as they laid their bets, and it didn't seem uncommon to swipe at each other with their knives in-between rolls of the dice.

Upon Ruby's entrance, the room filled with catcalls and repulsive suggestions; Ruby rolled her eyes as she helped Dean to a nook of his own, padded with a thin blanket—not that it was needed, Dean was already sweating—and a crevice to lean his head against. Inside the building was cooler than the outside, admittedly, but Dean knew that nothing would ever compare to the home he barely remembered.

“Settle in,” Ruby said, adjusting him into a comfortable position. “You'll stay here long enough to recover. When you're well enough, Alastair will send someone to collect you.”

The other demons quieted, a crowd of black eyes peering at Dean suspiciously.

“But he's human!” One protested.

“He can't stay,” said another.

“I suggest you get over it,” Ruby retorted, hands on her hips and her chin raised haughtily. “He stays here; King's orders.”

The demons frowned at that. “Does the King know he's still human?”

“Do you doubt the King's judgement?”

The demons recoiled, murmuring under their breath.

“Well?” Ruby demanded.

“No,” one answered.

“But humans are flawed and murderous—traitors, all of them,” said another. Ruby gave the anonymous female demon a sharp look, and she hastily corrected herself: “You _know_ what I mean.”

“Unless you want to take it up with _him_ , then I suggest you make due. Dean will be on his best behavior.”

“Dean?” One asked, his eyes narrowed at the human huddled in his nook. “Not Dean Winchester, surely.”

“Of course it's Dean Winchester,” Ruby replied with a sneer. “Who else would it be?”

“But he was under _Alastair_ ,” the man protested. “For _thirty years_ , he was under Alastair, and he's _still human?_ ”

“I'm right here, y'know,” Dean grumbled, face tight with pain as he put pressure onto his abdomen. “Right fuckin' here.”

“You're in impossibility, Dean,” Ruby said. “Or, at the least, an improbability. Don't be insulted; be proud. You've done what none before you have done.”

“Big fuckin' deal,” he hissed, narrowing his eyes at the blonde demon and scanning over the rest. “Alastair's a toxic wad of slime; I didn't want to give in, but...”

“Everyone does,” said another demon, large and male. He gave a slight nod. “But no one's been under his hand for a long time.”

“Your King,” Dean offered.

The demons bristled. “That was different,” he growled. “Everyone knew that Alastair aimed to break him, to prove him unworthy, but he failed. It's the only time he's _ever_ failed. There are some that say...” the demon's voice lowered. “Some that say that the King is favored by God. That he walks, not in the shadow, but in His Light. An eternity in Hell, and still he glows. Pure.”

“That he does,” said Ruby. “The favored, Righteous King; the Pure King Hellchild, the General's Son. The Lord's Hand.”

Dean tensed, face twisting with something he could not describe. “But what _is_ he?”

Ruby smiled. “He's salvation, Dean Winchester.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	24. 2:13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean takes up the knife—and sees some things he shouldn't.

The demons found Dean to be a curiosity; Dean could say much the same of them, strange, violent things that swarmed around him with almost puppyish intrigue. They were entirely repelling, but Dean saw an interesting opportunity to learn more about his enemies—after all, if the King made good on his word, Dean might even make it out of here. He might need whatever he learned to rebel once he was on the surface.

Still, Dean's thoughts of rebellion were tempered by nausea as he healed, weighed down by the knowledge of what he would have to do.

It took a week for his soul to recover, to knit together its scars with blackened ropes of tissue. His wounds stopped leaking with black goo—something the demons had said was a precursor to the familiar black demon smoke. Had his torture continued, eventually his wounds wouldn't heal at all; he would only drip liquid until it was all he was, and when he dried with the boiling heat of Hell, he would be true and fully _demon_. With time and control, he would have been able to reform the image of his former self, at least while contained in Hell.

Dean was extremely glad he'd managed (somehow) to remain human.

However, he didn't feel very human when Alastair sent for him, Ruby lingering while Dean gathered himself before she led him back to the Racks.

“Dean,” Alastair cooed as he approached.

A full-soul shudder wracked him at the sound of that voice; Dean wanted badly to recoil. “Alastair.”

“Come here, my boy,” the demon said; it took a sharp nudge from Ruby to push Dean toward him.

Alastair had a soul strung up on a Rack; a female, crying, terrified, entirely bare, but seemingly untouched. Dean felt sick; slender and blonde, she looked so much like Jo that he wanted to puke right then and there. He was sure that Alastair had chosen the soul purposefully.

“This is Kayla,” he said, leaning over the trembling girl. “Say _'hi'_ , Kayla.”

Her eyes were wide and softly brown and full of tears. She shuddered.

Alastair's slap cracked across her face; degrading more than harmful.

Kayla cried harder. “H-hi,” she said.

“This is Dean,” Alastair said with a sharp, smug smile. “You're gonna get to know him real well, aren't'cha? Well, say hello, Dean, it's only polite.” He didn't. Alastair's smile only widened. “He's a little shy,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Alastair turned, wheeling over some sort of stand that was covered in pristine weapons—knives and wires and saws and scalpels, needles and pliers and things Dean didn't even what to know about. He was still sure that he recognized each and every one. “Good,” said Alastair. “You know what most of these are. Good boy, Dean.”

“I'm not your fucking _dog,_ ” Dean snapped. From the corner of Dean's eye, he swore he saw a flash of white; distracted, he turned to look, but there was nothing there but rows and rows of screaming souls and grinning demons.

“Touchy. We'll fix that.” Alastair tapped Dean on the shoulder, ignoring the human's shudder and handing him a knife—simple. Clean. Just a steel blade that folded out of a textured handle; the typical, standard knife of a Hunter.

Dean turned it over in his hand, weighting it in his palm, swallowing through his parched throat. Just a knife. Just any other knife, nothing fancy.

_Just a Hunt._

Dean's brain seemed to flip a switch; his nausea went down, his heart started to calm. Just a job—if it was just a job, he could do it. He was a good damn Hunter.

“Good,” Alastair crooned again.

“Shut your damn mouth,” Dean snapped, turning a furious glance up at the white-eyed demon. “I don't want to hear you yap at me while I work.”

“Hey, boss, whatever you say,” he replied, holding up his hands in a falsely-placating gesture as he took a step back.

Dean turned to the soul sobbing on the rack—there was nothing special about her now. After all, she was in _Hell._

“Do it,” said a voice from behind him—Ruby. “Do it, Dean. Cut her.”

He didn't turn; instead, he took a step forward, eyes roaming carelessly over the smooth flesh, her breasts and pelvis bound down by thick leather straps—a mocking comfort to her chastity, Dean assumed.

“Please,” she begged, getting his attention.

When he looked now, her eyes were flat and muddy-colored.

Nothing special.

“It's nothing personal,” Dean said simply.

His blade slid across her sternum.

Three things happened all at once:

The girl screamed.

Deep, garnet-red blood welled up and stained her pale skin.

The sky went _white_ as a deafening _crack_ split the air.

It was only for a split second, but it was blinding; Dean recoiled and dropped the knife, which clattered on the stone. Alastair let out a loud, sharp laugh, wild with victory. Ruby made a sound that was muffled and pleased.

In the edge of his vision, another flash of white. This time, Dean turned quickly enough to see someone running.

It was a boy, _maybe_ twenty—tall and lanky, wearing ripped white clothing that were a stark contrast against well-tanned skin. He ran like someone who did so often, his whole boy thrown into the movement, from the swing of his arms to the pounding of bare feet against burning rock. Grime was smudged up his calves, staining the fabric tied off at his knees, as well as one side of his shirt, like he'd leaned against something covered in the black dust that settled over much of Hell.

He _glowed._

Dean didn't even think—he only followed, tearing off after the shining soul.

The boy turned sharply, and in the second that Dean glimpsed his face, Dean saw one thing.

_Joy._

 

* * *

 

 

Down, down, down—Dean hadn't even realized that Hell had a decline until he was running down it. Even when he could have sworn he was going to fall on his face, he didn't stop; he just ran.

He _had_ to find out more about the boy.

_An eternity in Hell, and still he glows. Pure._

Could it be—?

But he looked _human_.

Dean followed, even as the boy unrelentingly pulled ahead with single-minded determination toward his unknown destination.

Dean skidded to the edge of the cliff just in time to prevent himself from falling.

Far below, the boy was descending, bare hands and feet hooking into nooks in the sheer rock face. It was a circular depression that went deep, shallow shelfs every so often.

At the very bottom—

—Dean didn't even know what it was.

It looked almost like a... cage. Light burst from within in some huge shape, so bright it wasn't even _white_ , nearly blinding, and Dean was sure that if he'd had real eyes there was no way he could have ever stood to look at it.

He crouched down at the cliff's edge, glad that he did so and was steady, because the creature inside then started to _twist_. It shrank and condensed from light and space into dark and mass until it wasn't a shape or a color at all, but a _man_. Dean watched in morbid fascination as the man approached the bars, pressed close to the boundaries of the enormous cage, and waited for the strange, glowing boy to reach him. They looked similar—at least from afar. Dean considered that they might be siblings before his notion was thrown out by the glowing boy throwing himself at the man in the bars, reaching through desperately to pull the man into a kiss.

“You shouldn't be here,” said the man—Dean startled; surely he couldn't hear them? But it seemed the sound reverberated and bounced off the circular walls, funneling out to where he hid.

“I had to,” replied the boy, sounding breathless and pleased. “You felt it, right? You had to feel it.”

“Of course I did,” the man said, leaning his head forward to meet the other's fierce kiss again. “You've done so well.”

The boy—younger man—the _other_ preened, head lifted high with pride. “I promised you.”

“And now the First Seal is broken.”

The other pressed his face against the bars, making a contented noise when the man touched his face.

“You can't stay, you know that.”

“I can for a few moments. Just let me—”

They kissed, the glowing boy reaching for the other with longing, but making no attempt to get through the gaps in the bars—a gap that looked more than large enough to fit through. Through the space, they twined hands; a shockingly intimate gesture, tender, and buried in the heart of Hell.

Dean felt like he was intruding; if it wasn't for his burning curiosity, he would have left them and confronted the glowing boy later. But who knew when Dean would see him again? Maybe never. He had to stay.

And then the man's head lifted, looking straight at him, and Dean knew without a doubt that he'd been discovered—but what was the worst they could do?

“You've been hasty; you've lead your Righteous Man right to us,” he said.

The glowing boy turned, distant features slack with shock. The moment held as he stared up at Dean, and Dean at him, at least until—

“I don't care,” said the boy vehemently, turning back to the man and reaching for him again. “I deserve this.”

The man allowed the boy's possessive gesture with a noise of amusement, but from the deliberate way his fingers curled around the glowing boy's chin, Dean knew that this moment was far more significant than it seemed.

It ended only when the man pulled back and the light around the cage seemed to fluctuate. “I would give you anything, but we've gotten this far. You need to go. Take your time to gather the armies; sway him if you can. The Seal will have been seen to the Sixth Level; anywhere else, they won't know quite yet. You _must_ choose the Champion of the Righteous Man carefully; they _must_ believe they've won.”

“I know,” said the glowing boy, endlessly reluctant as he backed away from the bars. “I'll miss you.”

“I know you will, you silly thing,” replied the man quietly. “It's the only way I can let you go.”

“I would kill my way through all of Heaven's armies to come back to you.”

“Give it time; we'll get there.”

“No. No more time. No more waiting. When they come, I will follow them back just to cut them all down if they stand in my way. I won't waste a moment in having you walk free.”

“Careful, Boy-King,” replied the man. “Or you'll tempt me to call you back to my Cage, and then where will we be?”

“Together,” the King answered, voice tinged with longing.

“Soon enough,” the man said. “What are a few months compared to the millennia we've spent apart? You're strong—stronger than this. Bury your softness, your mercy, and lock it away. It has no place in your rule anymore.” The man glanced up to where Dean stood, frozen, and looked back to the King. “ _Ild geh in busdir casarm i aziazor,”_

“ _De homil zizop,”_ replied the Boy-King, picking up the language transition without so much as stuttering. “ _Casarm bagle ilso.”_

“ _De mononz i in,”_ said the man, his voice lilting up like it was a question.

“Yes,” whispered the boy mindlessly. “Yes, of course.”

“ _Lu-la homil. Lu-la samvelg, ar ild chiso toh,”_ replied the man vehemently.

The boy nodded again, fidgeting in place. “You know I will.”

The man paused, placing his hand against the bars. The Boy-King stepped forward, reaching out to brush his fingertips over the back of his knuckles.

“ _In samvelg bialo,”_ said the man, letting out a quiet breath. “ _Bliar chiso bransg il brgdo._ ”

“Thank you,” said the boy, stepping back for the last time. “You have my promise; I'll work as quickly as I'm able.”

The man, too, stepped back. The edges of his form seemed to blur. “You'd better,” he said. He sounded like he was smiling.

And then, before Dean's eyes, he burst into a great, blinding shape, much brighter than before.

By the time he regained his vision, the Boy-King was gone.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer: _ild geh in busdir casarm i aziazor_ || thou art mine glory made in likeness  
>  Sam: _de homil zizop, casarm bagle ilso_ || your true vessel, made for thee  
>  Lucifer: _de mononz i in_ || your heart is mine  
>  Lucifer: _lu-la homil. Lu-la samvelg ar ild chiso toh_ || Be true. Be righteous that thou shall triumph.  
>  Lucifer: _in Samvelg bialo_ || mine righteous voice  
>  Lucifer: _bliar chiso bransg il brgdo_ || comfort shall guard thy sleep
> 
> The lovely _destineytots_ drew [fanart](http://destineytots.tumblr.com/post/50752540822/fanart-for-maydeis-abaddonmentissues-fic-the) for this chapter! Thank you so much! <333 Friendly reminder that if you have anything you want me to see about TBK, tag it as **fic: tbk** on Tumblr!


	25. 2:14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, kids. This is the last chapter of Part Two. I'll have the Part Two playlist up in a little bit, so check back, and also on my [Tumblr](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com). 
> 
> I'll be taking a two week break after this, so you can expect me back on June 4th. This isn't something I want to do, but I need to give myself time to catch up to myself now that finals are done, and I also have to finish my fic for my AO3 Auction bidder, who has been so lovely and patient. As of now, I'm more or less out of pre-written material, and there's no way I'm gonna let that happen to you guys. Not with this fic. 
> 
> See you soon! Feel free to direct death threats here or to my Tumblr. <3
> 
>  **EDIT:** Here's the [fanmix](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2yHGt5ZZeZU&list=PLuNHavWE4wF75D2osxMC-P7i8sgdaIEWj). If you'd like to reblog it on Tumblr, it's [here](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/50522701546/the-boy-king-part-two-the-fanmix-1).
> 
> And another amazing [fanart](http://destineytots.tumblr.com/post/61900254532/ugh-i-never-finish-my-stuff-anymore) from **destineytots**!!

It took a long time for Dean to weasel any information about the King out of Ruby and the demons. It took him several months to get even a name— _Samvelg_ , Ruby called him. _Samvelg Bialo_ ; Righteous Voice.

In time, though, even that faded from Dean's mind. Years passed, and Dean became an accomplished torturer. Alastair called him the best student he'd ever had, outside of the Regent. Dean had once asked who they were, and learned not long after not to ask questions.

He started to like what he did.

The demons started to shy away for a different reason than his humanity.

He cheated them out of their best weapons. Even in a game where cheating by way of telekinesis was almost a rule in and of itself, Dean found ways to win. They could never figure out how he did it, so they could never contest him for his spoils.

Oftentimes, Dean only won for the sake of winning. He returned the fairly won _(not stolen)_ weapons after the game with the reminder of just _who_ the demons were in debt to for not having to answer to Alastair. He won many favors and debts this way. He also made enemies.

He liked it that way. Gave him a challenge.

He liked the Hellhounds, at first. They roamed about the Racks, biting at the feet of the souls, biting harder if they screamed. In looks, they weren't unlike Pit Bulls, but these dogs were vicious for the sake of viciousness itself. That wasn't to say that they weren't well-trained; they always returned to their nameless master when a piercing whistle echoed over the Level.

He liked them until their nameless master started releasing his souls.

Then he got irritated.

See, Dean didn't make stupid mistakes like _not securing his marks._ So, when they started _escaping_ , he started _questioning_ his supposed colleagues. When that returned no answers, he questioned Ruby. She said it was nothing, _a test for the Hounds_ , but that wasn't satisfying for Dean. If they wanted to _test_ the Hounds, they could leave _his_ souls damn well enough alone. He said to filter that information up to the top, that he didn't care how she did it.

And when _that_ didn't get the job done, Dean was fed up. Ten years, he'd been doing his job. Ten years, he'd worked hard to be the best at what he did so that the demons had no reason to say he was _soft._

When he heard the howling of the Hounds, he followed the sound.

He picked up the trail about halfway through the Level, hearing a more concentrated baying and fierce yelping. When he heard a voice shouting out commands, he knew he was in the right place.

He _knew_ that voice.

When he got close enough to crest the hill toward the short plateau where the Hounds gathered, he was almost just as quickly attacked by them. The soul that had _escaped_ was dropped, its head nearly torn from its shoulders. He found himself faced with six snarling beasts. He unsheathed his knife from his belt, lamenting that it was unlikely he could kill at least one before his throat was ripped out, too.

“No!” commanded the familiar voice of his waking nightmares. “ _Cubare_.”

With a chorus of whines, the Hounds sank down to their bellies, eyeing Dean warily; a gesture he returned. He stared each of them down, chin lowered and eyes hard. When one growled, he bared his teeth, and it quieted down soon after.

“You're good at that,” said the King.

Dean looked up; met the shuttered hazel eyes on a smiling face, saw the forced emotion displayed there. The boy was not a boy at all, he found, but still he glowed. He was younger than Dean—or _looked_ younger. He looked human, and he looked tired. His clothes were white, but frayed and blackened at the hems. His feet were bare and smudged with blood, but whether it was his own or the blood of the utterly rent soul still flayed on the rock at his feet, Dean couldn't tell. His hair curled around his ears, like the heat didn't particularly affect him enough to feel the need to cut it. He smiled like his face was a weapon with which he could intimidate others.

He was just a kid.

“I'd say _nice to meet you_ , but I wouldn't want to lie,” Dean said, his lip curling in distaste. “Your promises are full of shit.”

“Not at all,” he replied with a faint smile, his lashes like smudges of soot against his skin when he squinted at Dean. “I have every intention of getting you out of here, Dean Winchester.”

“It's been ten _years!_ ” Dean snarled, unexpectedly overcome with fury. “When exactly were you intending to _free_ me?”

“Exactly when I meant to.” He still smiled, thin and false and enigmatic, and Dean was more than sick of it.

“Don't you fucking play games with me,” he snapped. “You can talk straight with me or you can shut up, King or not.”

The King's smile flickered, just for a second, and Dean was just a little bit relieved to realize that, if he really _was_ human, he had a little bit of that humanity left. He shuffled, young and awkward, and for once, he seemed to reflect the age he looked like—young. “No one's talked to me like that in a long time,” he said quietly.

“I won't apologize,” Dean snapped back.

“I don't want you to,” he answered honestly. He took an earnest step forward, the shuttered look gone from his eyes, replaced with curiosity. “So many of my subjects, in revering me, forgot that I'm the thing they hate—like you. Human.” He smiled just a little, his head tilted to the side in a gesture that seemed, not condescending, but truly as if he were trying to understand what he was seeing. “I don't know how to be human. I never got to be.”

“You're human?” Dean asked, faltering. “But—you don't look like the rest of us. You didn't break under torture; five hundred _years_ of torture.”

“Under Alastair, yes,” he acknowledged, a flash of bitterness crossing his face. “It had to be done. It's regrettable, but I understand now like I never did back then.”

“But _why?_ ” Dean demanded. “What's the _point?_ Why would Hell have a human King? Why you?”

“I'm the voice of a greater being,” the King said, shoulders straightened with pride. “I carry out the demands and instructions of my superior, the demons' lost God. Many of them have forgotten, but some of us remember. In truth, I'm no better than the demons, but I'm better-educated. That's all.”

“What do you mean, _the demon's lost God?_ What the hell does that mean?”

“It means exactly that,” the King replied. He frowned.

“Are you talking about your buddy down there in the hole?” Dean asked, and his expression twisted. “That _thing?_ ”

The King's face went cold again. “He's more than you could ever comprehend, Dean Winchester.” The King started off on a prowl, circling around Dean and surveying him. Dean refused to be intimidated and allowed him to continue, not turning to watch him or making a fool of himself by spinning in place until he fell off-balance.

Dean sneered to himself. “And your so-called _God—_ does he usually mack on his worshippers?”

The King growled, and Dean found himself stumbling, but when he turned to look, the King was stock-still. He hadn't touched Dean. Dean's eyes narrowed— _human_ , he'd said, _but maybe not entirely human._ “You wouldn't understand.”

Dean let it drop and regained his balance—pissing the King off wasn't going to get him any answers. “So,” he said, diverging from the topic, “word on the street is that your name's _Samvelg Bialo.”_

The King—Samvelg—snorted slightly. “Someone's been gossiping. Was it Ruby?”

“Maybe,” Dean admitted.

Samvelg's coldness again seemed to melt away, a strange wave of emotion that was as volatile as it was fleeting. “It means _Righteous Voice—_ it's a title, not my name,” Samvelg admitted. “But you can call me that. My name isn't important.”

From far away, there rose a sound like a scream. Both Dean and Samvelg turned in that direction, but by the time they had stilled to better capture the sound in the shape of their ears, it had silenced, and left only the roar of fire and lava and smoke in its wake.

“Good,” Samvelg said to himself. “The Rebel's making progress. They weren't my first choice, but they've proven themselves.”

“What?” Dean asked.

Samvelg started to smile—it was faint at first, but the longer Dean stared, the more he fractured into something closer to joy. “Your ride out, Dean. There's an angel on your shoulder waiting to save you. The alarm will sound soon; then it's just a matter of time.”

“If you know,” Dean started, confused. “If you know there's someone coming, why don't you stop them?”

“I don't want to stop them,” Samvelg answered, smile widening. “Your time here has served its purpose. It's long past time that you walk free, Dean Winchester. I keep my promises.”

“You arranged this?” he asked, frowning. “An _angel_ in Hell?”

“Something like that.”

Sam spun in place, young and happy and smiling and it made the memory of Dean's heart hurt. He was so young, so twisted and inhuman, _damaged._ “I don't get it,” Dean said finally, frowning deeply. “There's gotta be more to this.”

“Of course there is,” said Samvelg with a grin, but this one was sharper than it was joyful. “There's so much more, Dean Winchester. I could tell you all about it, if you'd join me.”

Dean's fists clenched. “No,” he said. “I might be doing your dirty work with all the torture, but I won't turn full-scale. I'm still a Hunter.”

“That's too bad,” Samvelg said, starting to circle again. “I could have promised you things—safety for your family. Glory. Protection and power and happiness.”

“If I string myself up on your leash,” Dean sneered. “Yeah, no thanks, Sparkles.”

Samvelg looked down at himself, perplexed, and plucked at the fabric of his own shirt. Then he smiled. “Sarcasm. That's cute.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, his lip curled in a scowl. “Great, that's just great. What flavor of crazy are you, then?”

Samvelg snorted again, his hands perched on his hips, listing to one side in a perfect picture of a casual human being. “I'm not crazy, Dean,” he said simply. “I've just been very, very patient. Soon, I won't have to be. It's exciting, isn't it?” Abruptly, he bounced a few steps over to scrub his fingers against the angular head of a Hellhound. Its long tail started a slow wag, thumping against the rock, and it nosed into his palm. “That's a good girl, Ker. We'll run together again soon.”

“I think you _are_ batshit,” Dean replied, scoffing. “You've got a nuclear bomb and you're treating it like a sparkler.”

Samvelg glanced at Dean and rolled his eyes. “Who, Ker? She's more of an aerodynamic missile. The nuclear bomb is an entirely different beast.” Dean's eyes widened; Samvelg smiled. “What, you didn't think I would understand your reference? I might not be the most model human, but I told you—I'm well-educated. I know a lot about your world—your math, your science, your wars. You're fascinating in your drive to ruin each other.”

Another scream. Samvelg slowly stood, giving his Hound a final pat on the head. When the scream didn't immediately cut off, the King's eyes narrowed. Dean watched the flicker of emotions cross his face, soon drowned out by concentration. “Not far,” he said. “Not long.”

Dean turned, narrowing his eyes, but he could not yet see anything—but considering how far Samvelg was training his Hounds from _anything_ , that wasn't surprising. But there was something—some strange feeling that was starting in his gut. Maybe excitement. Maybe something else entirely.

He heard Samvelg muttering something, something too quiet for him to make out. By the time he turned, a man was flickering into being beside the King. His hands were wet with blood.

“It's time,” Samvelg said. “Is that it?”

“Blood from the body of the host,” the man replied in confirmation. With wet fingers, he stroked a series of marks up Samvelg's bare arms, over his throat, smears of red over his eyelids, a final mark on his forehead. “Do you remember the incantation?”

“Of _course_ I remember the incantation,” the King sneered. “You give me too little credit, Father.”

_Father._

The Yellow-Eyed Demon.

Dean tensed for a fight and sprung, knife in hand, mindless of the consequences. _This_ was the bastard that had stolen his brother. It was a pity he never made it far enough to attack—an invisible force impaired him, halted him, froze him in midair, entirely immobile. “You son of a bitch,” Dean snarled.

“You've got a mouth on you, kid, I'll give you that,” said the demon. He turned to face Dean with a yellow-eyed stare and a white-toothed grin. He took the form of an entirely average man, plain, if not for his eyes. Even Dean would have passed by him without a second glance. Perhaps he already had. “Itty-bitty Deanie-weenie. Well, you sure did eat your Wheaties, didn't'cha?” He smiled like a shark, looking Dean over.

“Fuck you!” Dean spat. “You took my brother, you asshole!”

“That's not nice, Dean-o,” replied the demon—Azazel, if he remembered correctly. “I'm hurt, really.”

“I'll fucking tear your spine out through your nose!”

“Temper,” Azazel chided, casually looking at Samvelg. “You okay, kiddo? You ready?”

“As I'll ever be,” Samvelg replied with a short nod.

“Ready for what?” Dean demanded.

Samvelg smiled in a faint echo of his father's predatory grin. “I've got big plans, Dean Winchester. I have a lot to do.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Soon enough, Dean.”

“I'm done with these half-answers!” Dean exploded. “You better goddamn tell me what I want to know!”

Azazel snorted, turning back to his son, ruffling his hair with one bloody hand. “Those Winchesters and their tempers.”

“Cut it out!” Samvelg snapped, pushing away Azazel's hand and grumbling as he attempted to flatten his blood-slick hair.

He smiled and turned, walking toward Dean and making a small circle around him. He came to a halt before Dean, barely a few inches away when he whispered, “You see what I mean, Dean? My Sammy's got such a temper.”

Dean didn't understand at first. He stared uncomprehendingly at the demon, his teeth bared in a snarl. When he realized, it hit him all at once, and the vehemence feel away from his face to be replaced by horror. He stared at the demon's face, looking for a lie, but he only saw the gleeful truth as it stewed in smug bile-yellow eyes.

“You're lying,” he whispered with the one last shred of hope that clung to the backs of his teeth, ready to bite or bruise or rip or tear.

“Am I?” Azazel asked. He flashed his teeth in a crocodile's grin. “Look at him, Dean-o. I know you saw it before, you just didn't wanna see, didja?”

Dean's eyes unintentionally looked at Samvelg over Azazel's shoulder. When he filtered out all the blood on his face and the strange style of his clothes, all Dean could see was a brown-haired, green-eyed kid.

He had Mary's nose. He had John's eyes. He had Dean's slightly-crooked mouth.

“ _Sam,_ ” he said, whispering around the shards of his broken heart. His voice must have caught on some of the pieces; something felt like it tore on the way out of his chest.

“That's right,” Azazel crooned into Dean's ear. “Little Sam. He's _my_ Sammy now.”

“What did you do?” Dean breathed, looking back at the Yellow-Eyed Demon.

Azazel's smile widened. “Nothing. Nothing like you're thinking.” Azazel took a step back. “I raised him well, Dean-o. I taught him everything. He's the best-educated human to ever live—and he _is_ living. Sam's a King, Dean. He's the highest of the high; demons _bow_ to him, revere him. He's a good kid; _my_ good kid.”

“He's not yours!” Dean snarled, taking an aggressive step forward.

“No, I suppose you're right,” Azazel agreed. “He's not mine at all. I'm just the babysitter. The one he belongs to is someone _much_ more dangerous.”

“Who—?”

One last scream, this one closer than the rest—and more terrible.

“Time to go,” Sam interrupted, stepping into place. “Father, it's time.”

“Sounds good,” Azazel said with a smile and a snap of his fingers. Dean ached to scream out to Sam, to try to _tell_ him but he found himself unable to speak with the _click_ of Azazel's fingertips. At once, a slew of demons appeared—at least five that Dean could see, maybe up to ten. They surrounded him in formation, one quickly binding Dean's wrists, another unexpectedly covering Dean's eyes with some kind of damp cloth that made his eyes water and burn.

“Get him out of here,” Sam commanded. Abruptly, fingers pinched at Dean's jaw and pried it apart; something that felt sickeningly like a metal horse bit was forced into his mouth. With a jerk from somewhere behind him, pain bloomed in his teeth, and Dean knew that if he even tried to bite, the tender bones would crack.

“Yes, my lord,” murmured a demon.

“I want you to bring him up to the castle and secure him in the dungeons. I'll be dealing with him once the intruder is eradicated. Under no circumstances is he to be captured, do you hear me?”

“Yes, my lord,” the demons answered in tandem.

“Good; go forth. Try not to hurt him... too much.”

Dean stumbled forward when he was shoved, and the crowd of demons sneered at him. They marched him forward, jeering insults, each more foul than the last—Dean ignored them all. Something wasn't right here. Didn't Sam say he was going to get out? Did he _lie?_

It couldn't have been more than ten minutes until someone screamed—this time, right next to his ear, and it was not alone. The screams of his demon captors followed, and Dean felt flashes of heat on all sides and yelled through his gag, desperate to see. He couldn't stand being blind, couldn't stand not seeing; had always been hyperaware with his vision since Alastair had tortured him and burned out his eyes too many times to count.

There was a sound like a crash and a shriek and a howl and a piercing note of raw music wrapped up in sun and love. The bindings around Dean's wrists fell away and the world lit up, even through Dean's eyelids and the blindfold.

It hurt like nothing he'd ever felt, but it was the sweetest pain Dean had ever been blessed enough to endure.

Hands like fire engulfed him, carefully extracted the bit from his mouth. The creature, _whatever_ it was, breathed across his face; Dean was certain his lungs were burning in his chest. He was surely dying, but he didn't try to escape. Dean's hands gripped at the hands that held him, careless of the agony as it felt like his skin began to peel away.

It felt _right_. It felt like a Kansas Summer and Adam's playful punches and Jess' shoves and Mary's hugs. It felt like _home._

“Dean Winchester,” the nuclear voice breathed, and electricity bloomed through Dean's skeleton. “I am here to grip you tight and raise you from perdition. Will you come with me?”

“Yes,” Dean choked through the blood and the burn. “ _Please._ ”

“It is good to see you again,” whispered the voice. “Do you remember me?”

Dean didn't know, _couldn't_ know, but he _did._ “Castiel.” he said in a sob.

“The Grace of God is with you, Dean Winchester. I promised you that you were blessed. I promised that you would not be alone. I am sorry it took me so long.”

“Save me,” Dean cried, consumed with pain and joy. “ _Castiel_ , please bring me home.”

Arms surrounded him, embraced him, much too large and immense to be real. It couldn't be Castiel, but it _was._ This was an angel. _This_ was an angel. “Hold on tight. Do not let go.”

Like _that_ was gonna happen.

There was the sound of thunder and ocean waves and everything started to move. Somewhere far away, Dean thought he heard another voice, but he buried himself in Castiel and did everything he could to fuse them together with the strength of his grip.

Time bent around them and Dean was blind and deaf, but he _trusted._

“We must go!” Castiel roared suddenly. “It is done! Brothers, sisters, retreat!”

A shriek of sound: “ _Castiel? You live?”_

“ _Flee!_ ” Castiel commanded. “We have little time!”

The sound multiplied. Dean's head was splitting, the noise exploding between his ears. Higher and higher and lighter and lighter until the dense atmosphere of Hell felt less like a mountain on his back and more like a feather.

Something broke.

There was a sound like a great scream from the center of the Earth itself, and with motion like a catapult, Dean was ripped from Castiel's arms.

Pain.

Agony.

Death.

Dean completed the cycle over and over again, and the light was fading from behind his ruptured eyes. He was falling into oblivion, and Dean was _scared_.

Heat.

Dean died a slow death and everything was disappearing. He'd never felt such sorrow and betrayal in his life. He'd never felt _alone_ like this.

 _I will return to you,_ whispered an exhausted voice in Dean's head. _It won't be long, Dean. Go home._

Home.

That was the last lingering thought in his hazy mind as it began to shut down from the agony, blocking it out—the _only_ thought was _home._

Before Dean died one last time, he swore he heard one distant scream: “ _Dean Winchester is saved!”_

And under that, a whisper: “ _I'm free.”_

But Dean forgot.

He forgot it all in favor of one word.

_Home._

 

* * *

 

 

**END OF PART TWO**

  



	26. 3:1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, kids. Part Three. I'm sorry for the wait, and I know a lot of you have been barely hanging on by the skin of your teeth, but I assure you that without those two weeks, this chapter wouldn't be ready. As it is, in the last two weeks I've moved twice, finished my AO3 Auction fic, started working on my FYSL prompt, and managed to finish this chapter and get well into the next. It's slow-going, but it's going. In fact, I even just got a call for my first job interview—yikes! Here's hoping they hire me. I can't imagine there'd be too many people that want to work nights in that city.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone that's stuck around so far! As for anyone that may be joining us recently (I recommend you go back and read from chapter one, it'll probably make more sense that way), welcome aboard! We've come a long way, and we still have a long way to go. Our pit stop break is over, so re-fasten your seat belts. We're kicking it up to Warp Five.
> 
> Reminder that you can find the Part Three playlist post [here](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/50792305167/the-boy-king-part-three-the-fanmix-1) if you want to reblog, and [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flLxVHYKeyk&list=PLuNHavWE4wF68Kq_vInqys0lR_claebbj) to listen. Enjoy!

  


 

Sam woke up screaming.

 _Pain_ , he thought, and it ripped through his muscles like a fire. Intellectually, he knew it was the buildup of Lucifer's Grace spreading from his soul into his cells, but all he knew was _pain._

When it stopped, it was all at once, but left his body sore. Sam's vision was hazy with exhaustion.

“Are you done?” a strange voice asked from beside him.

It was an unfamiliar man—average looks, average height; probably average all around, as was preferred by the creature with the yellow eyes contained within.

“Shut up,” Sam groaned, one heavy arm reaching up to rub at his eyes. “You should show me more respect. That was agonizing.”

“And now it's not,” Azazel retorted. “You're wasting time. Strike hard and strike fast, Sammy.”

“Let me get used to this,” Sam replied snippily, pushing himself up and swinging his legs over the side of the strange bed. The room around him was white—it was unsettling and comforting, reminding him of the Cage while also off-putting with its unfamiliar contents. There was a tube attached with flimsy adhesive to Sam's wrist that led to a machine that made a rhythmic sound. Sam's clothes felt very much like the parchment paper he had once used in his schoolings, but were tinted something he thought might be called _green_. Impatiently, Sam ripped the tube out of his arm without so much as a flinch. “Where am I?”

“A hospital,” Azazel answered, standing up from a padded chair and brushing off his stark-white jacket. “We've held this facility since before you arrived. We put you up here on the top floor; no patients are allowed up. We've avoided suspicion by continuing to treat the humans on the lower floors; a few higher-rank demons possessed the doctors. It's a top-notch operation.”

“That's all well and good, but where _physically?_ ” Sam asked.

“Nebraska,” the Yellow-Eyed Demon answered.

“Midwest, central to the country. A mild area. Why here?”

Azazel grinned. “ _You_ weren't our only mission, Sam. For now, though...” Azazel picked up a pile of strange clothes; among them, Sam recognized the strange blue trousers that Lucifer's echo had worn. “You can't walk around in scrubs.”

Sam didn't question it. He made a silent inventory—thin shorts, thick trousers, a single-piece shirt with short sleeves, a shirt with long sleeves and an overabundance of buttons, white pouches with an odd shape. He frowned. “How—?”

“For a genius, you sure are stupid,” Azazel scoffed. He gestured at each article. “Those are boxers; they go under these— _jeans_. This shirt is called a _tee-shirt_ for its shape; the other one is something the younger humans call _flannel_ for the material it's made of, but it also functions as a noun. The flannel goes over the other shirt. This world is much colder than what you're used to.”

Sam tilted his head. “And these?” He held up the cotton pouches.

Azazel rolled his eyes. “Socks, Sam. They go on your feet, under your shoes.”

Sam nodded and tried not to be exceptionally frustrated; he disliked not knowing these things. He got dressed with minor incident, aside from tripping over the legs of the jeans. He itched at his legs. He found the flannel more to his taste; soft, warm, gray-and-black overlapping lines. “Plaid?” Sam questioned.

“Correct,” Azazel answered.

Sam wiggled his toes. “Do you have a map?”

“I've done you one better—I have a map _and_ shoes,” the demon replied, procuring a folded sheet of paper and a pair of boots. “These are broken in already for you; Brady wore them in. They should be comfortable.”

Sam sneered. “Brady—is that the demon that wore my vessel?”

“Yes. He's already picked up the body of another coma patient. He'll find us soon enough.” Azazel watched as Sam crammed his feet into the worn and faded leather boots. At the very least, he was glad that Sam was capable of tying his own shoes. He unfolded the map. “I've marked where we are in blue—your target is in red, and the route is in yellow.”

Sam squinted at the map, tracing his finger over the long yellow line. “Southern Wyoming? That's the closest we could find?”

“It's the only one in the country, Sam.”

“I didn't expect the country to be quite this large,” Sam complained. “What could they possibly need with this much land? They're like vermin.”

“And you're the exterminator.” Azazel plucked a bundle of fabric off of the hook on the back of a door. “This is your backpack—rucksack, book bag, whatever you want to call it.” Azazel sat on the bed beside Sam, opening the zipper and extracting the contents one-by-one. “There's a change of clothes for you here; be conscious of your look, because the humans _will_ be looking. They will treat you better if you present yourself with modesty and kindness; be smart, but never too smart. This won't be a problem for you.” He dug out a piece of folded-over brown leather and opened it. “This is a wallet; it holds cash. You remember the currency system; it's laughably self-explanatory.” He extracted a card from a pocket. “This is your identification—Keith Samuel Wesson. Your birthday is May 2 nd, 1983. It's currently the year 2004—you're twenty-one. Today is September 2nd. This is a card identifying you as a student from Stanford University; the appropriate records have been put in place. Your Social Security card is in here as well.” He put the card back where it was and pulled out another; a piece of blue plastic. “This is your credit card. Use it in emergencies; otherwise pay in cash. You have enough.” The credit card was replaced, and Azazel pulled out a thin piece of paper. “And this is your bus ticket; it leaves in a few hours from just outside.”

“I'm taking a bus?” Sam asked, scowling. “Upwards of fifty humans crammed in a moving hunk of steel and oil?”

“Yes you are, and you'll do it without complaint. There will be a bathroom in the back.”

Sam sneered. “Humans are disgusting.”

“Try not to talk about humans like you aren't one,” Azazel added. He dug out another object—a rectangular hunk of metal. With a quick flick of his wrist, a blade switched out. “This is a multi-tool. It has enough things to keep you going. Try not to threaten or murder anyone with the knife unless it's absolutely necessary; it'll get the law enforcement on your trail.”

“Fine,” Sam agreed. He reached into the bag and pulled out a piece of plastic. “Is this a vessel?”

“It's a water bottle, technically. But, yes. You'll need to drink approximately two or more of these per day to keep yourself going. Humans are mostly made of water, as you know. You can fill it up before you leave.” He pulled out a clear pouch. “These are pretzels; they're salty, easy carbohydrates. There's also your tried-and-true favorite fruits and vegetables in there. Make them last.”

Sam glimpsed one more object. “What's this?”

“It's a CD player.” Azazel handed it to him. “There's extra batteries inside. This will play music when you put discs inside. Brady will show you.”

“Brady,” Sam scoffed again. Suddenly, he looked up. “Oh, surely not.”

“Surely, yes,” Azazel insisted. “You'll need someone who knows what they're doing.”

“Why does he have to come with me?” Sam complained. “I'm perfectly capable.”

“You're an infant in a fast-moving world,” Azazel snapped. “In this, you'll do as I say. Consider him a body guard and an informant.”

Sam scowled as he shoved his belongings back into the bag. “I don't like this.”

“Get to like it,” commanded the demon. “He's your cover story. You two are brothers returning home to an injured father. That's what you're to say to anyone who asks. By having company, you'll be able to avoid most human interactions. This is a _good_ idea, Sam. Don't be stubborn.”

A figure appeared in the doorway—a short brunette boy with curly hair that could have easily been mistaken as Sam's biological relative. “Ready to go, there, Keith?” Brady asked.

Sam sneered at the boy. “Can't wait.”

 

* * *

 

The bus was cramped and Sam was uncomfortable. Luckily, Brady was _gracious_ enough to let Sam take the seat near the window. _Look at the world,_ he'd said. _Look at the land. Look at what they've done to it._

And Sam did—wires, metal, plastic; refuse piles at the side of the road, scattered in the man-dug ditches that paralleled the pavement. It was disgusting. He felt vaguely sick and very sorry that he'd ever argued with Lucifer over the humans. How could they do this to such a world, built from blues and greens and colors that Sam had never seen in all his time in Hell? The reds were richer, the brown was warmer, their yellows more pleasant and less suffocating, absent of sulfur and smoke.

This world was strange and new and different. The air was clean and crisp, though the wind was cold to his heat-sensitive skin. Sam had wrapped himself in fabric and flannel, but had only found warmth when Brady had offered him a coat made of leather—the skin of another creature. Sam found the idea appalling, but he couldn't deny the heat he needed. Still, his mind lingered on the thought of Lilith's favored boots, and he'd never quite realized how brutal she was until then.

“It's strange,” Brady said quietly from beside him. Sam turned his head to look at the shadow of the boy that housed his so-called _bodyguard._ “I've possessed your vessel for so long that I got used to the way it worked.”

“Forget it,” Sam all but hissed. “I don't want to think about anyone else wearing this skin.”

“You should thank me,” Brady said without heat. “If not for me, your vessel wouldn't have been able to move at all. I kept your muscles moving, I built them up, I made you strong. I trained your lungs. I trained your hands. I trained your physical memory. All you trained in Hell was your soul and your mind. Without a proper body, all of that would have been useless.”

Sam bared his teeth, but was bound to stay as calm as he could—surrounded by humans, he couldn't afford to make a scene. “Impudent—”

“I mean no disrespect,” Brady said, shrugging carelessly. “I'm still your subject; you're still my King. Forgive me if I simply don't find you as majestic and mythical as the rest. It's hard to do that when I've been the only saving grace of your comatose _meat_.”

“My father—”

“Oh yeah, Azazel's the man with the plan,” Brady agreed. “But I'm the manual labor. I'm the one that made it happen. Even when your yellow-eyed _daddy_ wasn't around, I was still doing my job.”

“As you should,” Sam snarled quietly, staring Brady down with a fierce glare. “In my place, he was your regent. You should trip over yourself to meet his demands.”

Brady snorted softly and looked away. “Yeah, okay. You know, I've been around nearly as long as your precious princess Meg. I do my job just as well. But I'd have much rather been free than stuck sitting pretty.”

“You think I wouldn't have done the same?” Sam snapped, his voice barely a whisper. “That I wouldn't have given anything to be here? I have lived over 2400 years, and here I'm barely more than a child. _I_ suffered under Alastair's hand. _I_ faced death at every turn. _I_ am the one that seeks to make you free for every remaining day in this world. _You_ should show _me_ some respect. _You_ should thank _me._ I'm risking everything I _don't have_ to free Our Lord. So don't you _dare_ complain to me about sitting in _my_ skin and having nothing more than a few sore muscles for barely twenty years. I have been fundamentally _alone_ for upwards of two millennia. _Shut. Up._ ”

Brady stared hard at Sam, his eyes flickering over his face. The silence was drowned out by the roar of the bus' engine and the thrum of the tires. “You'll make a terrifying King,” Brady said at last. “You command your skin well.”

“It isn't mine to command,” Sam sneered, turning away and pressing his forehead against the cool of the window. His gaze went vacant and the landscape turned into one great blur of color. He closed his eyes against the throb that was staring at his temple. “I'm a placeholder, little more than you.”

Sam didn't offer anything else. Brady didn't ask. For nearly an hour they ignored each other—at least until Sam's stomach started aching and making alarmingly loud grumbles.

“You need to eat,” Brady said then. “Where's your bag? I told Azazel to pack grapes.”

“He said something about pretzels,” Sam grumbled under his breath, fishing in the bag at his feet until he extracted several clear, sealed bags of different-colored food things. “I don't...” Sam scowled at the food. “He didn't teach me about their food. He didn't teach me about actual human function.”

“Why do you think he sent me with you?” Brady asked, raising his eyebrows at Sam—an expression that looked especially patronizing coming from the body of a young teen. “It wasn't for protection—I know you don't need me for that.” Brady reached for the bags. “Gimme.”

Sam was slightly shocked when Brady wrenched them out of his hands without so much as a _please_. Being treated as an equal by Dean had been intriguing—but this was just _rude._ He found he didn't like it much.

“Get used to it, princess,” Brady said, reading Sam's expression. “You can't go slaughtering everyone who pisses you off, and I won't be the worst. At least I'm trying to keep you on the right track and keep you fed. You've never had to eat before—never had to _really_ sleep, never had to piss. I don't have to do those things—this is just _meat_ for me. It can be dead or alive, and it'll still move because I want it to. Your body's different. It needs to live for you to use it, so you need to keep it healthy. Eat, sleep, shit, shave, all the fun stuff. Here,” he diverted abruptly fishing out one small, purple orb and holding it out for Sam. “Grapes. You'll like them.”

“How do you know?” Sam asked irritably.

“They're your taste buds,” Brady replied will a roll of his eyes. “Demon or not, those don't change. Eat. Don't choke. Chew your food.”

“I _know_ what chewing is,” Sam snapped, popping the fruit into his mouth and mumbling around the tasteless skin. “I'm not a baby.”

“Might as well be,” Brady said. “Go on, then; chew.”

Sam bit down. His mouth was flooded with a strange taste—like water and sugar and something _other._ His eyes widened as he chewed and swallowed.

“They're sweet. That's the word you're looking for. Sweet, sour, salty, bitter, savory, spicy. We—you—don't like sour things. Salty is a hit or miss; high salt content is usually too much. You like natural sugars more than artificial—fruits, basically. You like bitter things, especially vegetables. Spicy is usually fine. For savory, avoid heavy-tasting meat; no venison, game, things like that. Chicken and turkey are okay. Beef is okay as long as it's not too often. You do like bread—real bread, not that white-bread shit. Try not to stuff yourself.”

Sam chewed thoughtfully on another grape, thoroughly distracted from his irritation. “What else is there?”

“We need to make this last,” Brady warned. “Just try a little of each or you'll get a stomachache.”

“Fine,” Sam replied, holding out his hand. “Give.”

“Rude,” Brady replied, but obligingly plopped a strange green shape into his hand that almost looked like a small tree. “Broccoli. This is more bitter.”

“I can eat all of it?” Sam asked, inspecting the stalk. “What about this part?”

“Just chew.”

Sam did.

The taste was strange; dry and full of texture. Sam could practically taste the color green. Strangely enough, he found he _did_ like it, though he supposed it could be improved by a variety of other tastes. “Is it acceptable to eat more than one thing at once?”

“It's usually recommended,” Brady replied wryly. “Or cooking things.”

“How odd,” Sam said, chewing thoughtfully on the stalk. He eyed the backpack. “What else is there?”

Brady rolled his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Everything was dark.

There was blood rushing in his ears—between that and his wheezing, he thought his head might explode. It was pure noise, deafening noise, and his skull already felt fit to burst.

With Herculean effort, he reached up—only to find his fingers met with a hard surface. His elbow collided with another to his side.

He was trapped.

He scrambled for the lighter in his pocket, flicking it on with some difficulty. The flame spluttered and went out after only a moment. It was enough for him to see that he was stuck; judging by the dimensions, _buried._

He was buried alive.

There was barely enough room to get his legs bent, but he managed. When the lid of his coffin cracked, he thanked whatever powers may be for a cheap pine box. He scrabbled to the surface.

When Dean Winchester emerged from the ground, he found himself surrounded by cracked gravestones and burned trees. He barely noticed as he gasped in as much fresh air as he could get, making a sad attempt to swipe grave dirt from his eyes.

He collapsed, content to simply lay there in the sun for a while longer while he caught his breath.

When he finally found the strength to move, he left without looking back. Maybe he should have.

If he had, he may have realized that the grave he emerged from was marked by a different name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	27. 3:2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got a reunion and more of Sam and Brady bitching.

Dean didn't really have any idea what the _hell_ he was doing in Illinois, but he stole a car easily enough and started to drive.

Hell was a blur to him, in a sense. Not in the sense that he didn't remember every second of every minute—because he _did—_ but in the sense that he had no idea how he had gotten _out._ All he knew was that his left shoulder was _killing_ him from where the seatbelt was braced against it, his spine ached like nothing else, and he had a serious case of the sniffles.

All Dean _did_ know for sure was that he had a long drive ahead down Route 55 and across 72. If he drove it hard, he might be able to make it in six hours. Without a tape to lead him true (or even a decent radio station), he made it in about six-and-a-half. Not his best, but he wasn't exactly driving his Baby, either.

He parked the stolen car on the curb and sent a prayer of thanks skyward that Baby was still parked safely in the driveway. Adam must've been taking good care of her; her paint was immaculate and her rims were practically sparkling. He would've given himself a pat on the back for teaching the kid well if his shoulder didn't hurt so damn bad. Maybe Mary would be able to fix it for him later.

Dean hadn't really thought too much about what their reaction might be—after all, it _had_ to be one of them. Somehow one of them had done something—and he hated it, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't thankful for getting his ass out of the hotbox.

The last thing he was expecting when his mother opened the door was a silver knife barely missing his jugular as he dodged.

“Christ!” Dean snapped, stumbling back and nearly killing himself as he tripped over the two short stairs. “Mom, stop!”

“How the hell did you get past the wards?” Mary demanded, expression pinched with fury and underlying pain. She grabbed Dean by the front of his shirt and gave him a slight shake, the edge of her knife pressing hard against his neck. She stared at the point of contact with wide eyes. “This is silver.” She stared at him. “What the hell are you?”

“Human, Ma!” Dean replied, but endeavored to stay very still. He knew just how lethal his mother could be with a knife. “I don't know what you guys did, but something popped me out.”

“We _cremated_ you!” Mary choked out through a sob. “You are _not_ my son!”

“Dean?” A voice asked from the doorway. Silver knife at his throat or not, Dean couldn't help but break into a smile when he saw Adam, despite the wary and tentatively hopeful look in the boy's eyes.

“Hey, Addie,” Dean rasped. “Good to see you, kiddo.”

“Don't you talk to him,” Mary hissed.

Dean looked up at his mother, taking in the lines around his eyes and her mouth that marked her with her stress. They were practically scars at this point, and a part of Dean doubted they would ever really go away. Whatever had happened after he died, it had changed her. “I'm me, Ma,” Dean said quietly. “Drown me in holy water if you want. Make me take a salt bath—I don't _care._ ” His voice cracked. “I missed you.”

Slowly, Dean saw Adam approach until the boy was standing behind their mother, his hand clenched white-knuckled around a silver flask. He unscrewed it with shaky fingers, and before Dean could react, tossed some onto his face.

Dean took a moment to savor the feeling of stale water in his mouth and mud in his eyes. Surprisingly, it was not any more pleasant than he remembered it, even after being revived.

He spat out the water and gave his younger brother an irritated look. “Can you never just go for the arm or something?”

“You're alive, aren't you?” Adam asked, lips pursed and pale. “Really alive?”

“Yes, I am _really_ alive. And you guys are _really_ assaulting me in broad daylight,” Dean reminded them, ducking his face into his shoulder to rub it against his equally-filthy shirt.

He had no warning aside from the loud clatter of the knife hitting the pavement before his mother and brother were all but on top of him, eyes wet with tears and babbling chatter and Dean was _really_ uncomfortable, but holy hell had he missed them. He figured Mary wouldn't mind too much if he got dirt smears all over her shoulder. He tucked his face against her neck and tried not to sniffle too much as he breathed in as much of her scent as he could get.

He'd missed this.

“We _cremated_ you,” Mary whispered against his hair. “And you still came back to us, baby.”

“You guys didn't do this?” Dean asked, voice muffled against the cotton of her shirt.

“No, sweetheart,” she said, dropping a kiss to his temple. “Not me, not Adam. Not your dad.”

Dean pulled back, swallowing heavily. “He's okay?”

Mary nodded shakily, getting to her feet and holding out her hands to help him up. Adam clung to Dean's side as soon as he was vertical. “He's okay,” Mary said. “Though I should put you in a world of hurt for running off and throwing yourself down a hole. Do you know what that did to me? To your brother?”

Dean could see her gearing up for a fight—a fight that was inevitable, but one he wasn't ready for just yet. “Ma—look, can I at least get inside? Get a shower, maybe a meal?”

Mary deflated, but the hard look in her eyes didn't completely burn out. “Yeah, honey. What do you feel like having? I've got some leftover lasagne in the fridge and there's an apple pie in the oven—”

Dean's stomach rumbled and he cringed as cramps rolled through him. “Sounds perfect,” he assured her, careful not to trip on Adam as he entered the house. He ruffled Adam's hair with one filthy hand. “Addie, I gotta shower, man. I'll give you a proper hug once I'm clean, okay?”

“You won't disappear?” Adam asked. His voice was quiet and pained as he looked at his brother, focused like he was afraid Dean might vanish if he so much as blinked.

“I'm not going anywhere, buddy,” Dean said, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. “Hey, how about you go get me some clothes out of my room, huh? Something nice and comfy. Can you do that for me?”

Adam nodded, skittering off toward Dean's supposed _room_ , which was mostly a guest room that housed a fair collection of Dean's belongings. The other portion of them were either safely kept at Bobby's or in the trunk of the Impala. Either way, he would be glad to get some sleep later—despite the fact that he was keyed up about as high as he could get without crashing, his exhaustion was bone-deep, just like the soreness that permeated his muscles.

The hot water was just about enough to make Dean sing his praises, but he figured it was better not to linger too long. Still, the dirt took a while to scrub from his body and hair, and it was only once the water stopped running muddy and brown that he started paying attention to what he was doing.

And stopped dead.

Because there, high on his left shoulder, was a handprint. A _burn,_ raised and angry-red, and Dean had no idea how he could have missed it, because now it _hurt_. He couldn't turn the temperature down fast enough. It was worth the chilly water just to get some relief.

What the _hell_ was it?

He lay his hand over it, taking in the fact that it was a little smaller than his, the palm a little more broad. If it wasn't _his_ handprint, then whose was it? How did it get there?

Dean didn't like surprises. This one seemed like a nasty one waiting to happen.

Well, he didn't think he was going to be relaxed again anytime soon. No need to waste water.

He dried himself off and shrugged on the old tee and sweatpants that Adam had left for him on the bathroom counter, then followed his nose down to the kitchen—only to stop in the living room at the sight of the black-and-gold-threaded urn that was set on the mantle.

His picture was next to it—one of him and Jess that had been taken in Bobby's kitchen, each of them holding a beer, Jess attempting to kick him from her seat on the counter when he tried to steal a bite of her pie. He remembered that picture. He remembered it all, and wondered how, exactly, he was going to explain this all to Jess without getting knifed.

He picked up the urn—just out of curiosity, really. However, it didn't seem quite as heavy as it should in his hands. Dean frowned and lifted the lid and peered inside—

—only to see nothing.

“Ma!” Dean hollered.

“What?” Mary replied from the kitchen, her footsteps drawing nearer as she entered the living room. “Dean, what are you—?”

“This urn,” he said, turning to her and holding it carefully. “This is where I was, right?”

“Yeah,” Mary said, her voice going quiet. “Why?”

Dean swallowed and felt the handprint on his shoulder throb. “It's empty.”

 

* * *

 

The bus ride was long and boring, only tempered by getting into hissed arguments with Brady and contemplating the phenomenon that was music that spilled from his CD player. Luckily for Sam, most of the human things that needed doing seemed to be instinctive—he was privately relieved that he hadn't needed assistance in figuring out how to use the bathroom by himself.

He was a King, not an invalid, no matter if he _was_ wearing human skin.

He still had a job to do. Unfortunately, this was the only way. It was as fast as they could possibly go, and still unbearably slow. Sam hated it.

Still, Brady insisted that they would have less than a full day left of driving—or riding, as the case may be. Luckily, Wyoming was only the next state over, and they were slated to stop before they crossed the tracks of Colt's railroad—mostly because Brady wouldn't be able to cross until the tracks were broken. Sam would figure out that particular problem when they came to it, but since he wasn't bound by iron the way Brady was, he figured it wouldn't be much of a problem.

Until then, all he had to do was doze.

_He wasn't sure what was happening; only that everything was cold, so cold, and he was alone. It was a room—old, gray, and dark, with peeling paint on the walls that exposed the rotting wood underneath. There was one window, cracked and dirty, with a plain mosaic of colored tiles that made a cross from the colors red, yellow, blue, and green. They cast a dull glow onto the floor, but it only added an eerie quality—especially when it came to the wrought-iron bars that covered the window, choked with spiderwebs._

_There was something about the room that made Sam edgy. When he turned, there was no door to offer him an exit. There was no escape from this place._

_In reality, he would have been more calm about it, he thought. But since this was a dream, Sam scrabbled at the walls and pulled at the bars, inexplicably frantic to escape. He felt like someone was watching him, and only felt a sense of urgency that he could not place._

_He had one thought._

_Lucifer._

“Sam!”

Sam shot up in his seat, a strangled breath catching in his throat. There was a hand clamped tight on his shoulder—Brady, he found, as his head whipped toward him. He barely stepped on his reflexes in time to prevent himself from snatching the multi-tool out of his pocket and stabbing it deep into the demon's flesh. Not that it would have done anything, of course, but it was best to avoid those sorts of things in public places—or so he was told.

“What?” Sam demanded, voice muted through his labored breathing.

“You were having a nightmare,” Brady replied, frowning. “Dreaming.”

“I don't dream,” Sam snapped in reply.

“You _didn't_ dream,” Brady retorted. “Now you do. Now you _sleep_. Relax. I just didn't want you setting the whole bus on red-alert with your whimpering.”

Sam went stonily silent and turned his face away, resting his forehead on the window. It was gloriously cool, because for once, he felt _too_ hot. When he pulled back, his sweat had condensed on the glass.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Sam shot Brady an irritated look. “Why would I?”

“Why wouldn't you?” Brady replied, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back into his chair. He raised his eyebrows at Sam. “Your first dream ends up as a nightmare. What was it?”

“It was none of your business,” Sam said quietly, pressing his face back against the glass and closing his eyes against the rushing blur of colors of the outside.

He never thought he would miss _red_ so much.

“I think you're the only one to _miss_ Hell,” Brady said under his breath. “All the demons—being up here is like a permanent vacation, and we're built for the heat. You're not—you're made for this stuff, up here, and you're still the one shivering.” He reached out and grabbed Sam by the collar, tugging him around and feeling Sam's forehead with the backs of his fingers. “Great, you're feverish. Probably picked up some damn bug from being on the bus with all the other vermin. Drink some water.”

Sam sneered at him, but accepted the bottle when Brady all but shoved it into his hands, obligingly taking one sip—and when that proved to be a balm to his dry throat, another and another. Sam sighed as he capped the bottle and pressed it against his neck. Sweet relief.

“I don't understand this place,” Sam groaned quietly. “It's so cold, but it's so _hot_. Once this mission is done, we _have_ to find another way to move around.”

“There's driving,” Brady said with a shrug, digging through the bag. “But you'd have to find someone else to teach you. Weaker demons just smoke from vessel to vessel. Us stronger demons, we can pop from place to place and drag the meat with us. We never needed to learn how to do those _human_ things.” He glanced at Sam. “I didn't think you'd have to learn, either. I thought Big Daddy Boss-man hooked you up.”

“I'm not wasting his gift on something so simple as _moving_ ,” Sam sneered, pressing the bottle against his eyes. “He taught me to be resourceful, not wasteful. If I have an alternate way of doing things, that's the way I should do it. Magic and rituals are powerful tools to be used when I have need of them. Transportation isn't a need, it's a convenience.”

“Suit yourself,” Brady replied with a flippant roll of his eyes.

Something in Sam's gut tightened and churned, and Sam fought a wave of heat that pushed against his throat. “My stomach doesn't feel right,” Sam said through a groan.

Brady huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Great.”

 

 

 

 


	28. 3:3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for helping make TBK break 7,000 hits! I'm so sorry I'm getting behind on answering comments, I just started working, and today was my first official day on a register. Once my training is done, I'll be working nights, and I might be a little late on Tuesdays accordingly. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the continued support and curious questions I've been getting over on my [Tumblr](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com)! I love you all and encourage you to leave questions and comments and suggestions, even if I may not be able to answer them due to spoiler content. Reminder that if you make any posts on Tumblr, please tag them with the tag **fic: tbk** , otherwise I probably won't see them!
> 
> Thank you guys so much, I love you all! <3

“I don't understand. How can it be empty?” Mary said, holding the urn in her hands, her face pinched as she stared at it. She sank a little deeper into the couch.

“I don't know,” Dean replied. He swallowed. “I mean, I woke up in a grave. I figured you'd put me there, but if you didn't—”

“I didn't,” Mary said quietly. “We had no way of knowing, Dean. We did what we should have done for your dad—we salted and burned you, kept your ashes with us.”

“There's nothing in the world that should have been able to bring me back,” Dean said quietly, all but falling back into his favorite armchair. “This can't have been a demon. And barring one of them, I don't know what else could have done this.”

Mary looked up, her eyes damp, and she placed the urn on the coffee table. “Dean, what happened in—?”

It was at that moment that they heard the sound of a door opening—the front door. Both were frozen for the handful of seconds it took John Winchester to turn the corner into the living room.

For the first time in years, John Winchester saw his son with his own eyes. Luckily, the shock seemed to be enough to throw him off-kilter for the scant moments it took Adam to snatch the silver-bladed multi-tool from his pocket.

Dean stood. He swallowed. It had been so long that he didn't even know what to say. “Dad—”

John's eyes flickered to Mary. He didn't say a word in response as she rose to her feet and walked to him and handed him the urn. John took it with a look of speculation, emotions rapid-firing across his face as he felt the lack of weight that came with the absence of his son's ashes.

He looked up and met Dean's eyes.

“Son,” he said. His voice cracked.

“Dad,” Dean answered, swallowing back hysteria.

They were silent. Neither knew how to proceed, to discuss the entirety of the situation that came with Dean's sacrifice and John's return to life. Dean had no way of knowing what John remembered from Hell; the same went for John.

Dean's response would decide how things went on. He knew that. They could go back to ignoring each other or they could make a change.

He just didn't know what to say.

“Did you eat yet?” John asked, breaking the silence.

Dean sighed heavily, relieved. “Nah.”

John gestured for Dean to follow, and he did (if with a twinge of annoyance at the easy way his father started ordering him around again). “Gotta be starving. Know I was.”

“Ma said somethin' 'bout pie,” Dean mumbled.

Mary followed them helplessly, Adam at her heels. “Still got ten minutes left. Lasagne's in the fridge.”

“Whisky first,” John answered, going straight for the cabinet above the fridge and pulling out a bottle.

“John!” she scolded.

“He needs it,” John replied, voice low and serious in a way that meant there would be no argument or the argument that followed would be one to remember. He handed the entirety of the bottle to Dean, who uncapped it and took a swig, eyes closing with exhausted bliss at the burned sweetness. Dean sighed and collapsed onto one of the island benches, careless of his elbows resting on the counter and the consequences for disobeying Mary's kitchen rules. He hung his head, resting his brow against the outward curve of the wide bottle.

“Thanks,” Dean said quietly. He didn't know what else to say.

“You've got a month's worth of drunken nights ahead of you, boy, but I need you to hold back on that right now.” John reached over the kitchen island, grasping Dean's wrist until he made eye contact. Then, quietly, he asked, “You said yes, didn't you?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered, short and simple. He took another long drag from the bottle.

“Damn,” John cursed.

“What—?”

“Mary, give us a few minutes, okay?” John asked with a frown, meeting his wife's eyes. “Take Adam with you. Gotta discuss something with Dean.”

“John!” Mary protested, her pretty face twisted with grief and anger. “You haven't talked about it, not once, and I deserve to know!”

“It isn't something that can just be _said_!” John snapped.

Dean eyed his brother as he slipped out of the room, unnoticed by their quarreling parents. He wondered if this was all the days had been since he'd left... even before Hell. John and Mary were in each other's faces, spitting mad, and Dean made a break for it, taking the bottle with him as he crept out of the room in search of his brother. He found him upstairs, lying on his back on Dean's bed. His eyes were swollen and red, but it didn't appear as though he'd cried. Adam looked up when Dean entered the room and wordlessly scooted over to make space. They lay shoulder-to-shoulder in silence for a while, listening to the muffled sounds of their parents arguing.

“If they don't argue, they don't talk at all,” Adam said finally.

Dean winced. “I'm sorry.”

“Dad says he still loves her, but he hasn't been the same.” Adam turned his head, looking at Dean. “Why'd you do it?”

“You need a dad,” Dean answered. “Needed _our_ dad. You're only fourteen.”

“You're only twenty-five,” Adam retorted with a disgusted noise, turning his face away. “It's not your choice, what I need.”

Dean didn't say anything. Didn't know what to say, until, “Either way, I was gonna be gone. You might as well still get to have him around.”

“Would rather have _you_ around,” Adam replied softly. He turned onto his side, facing away from Dean, but he didn't try to leave. “What'd they do to you?”

“Bad stuff. They said they were gonna do bad stuff to you and Mom if I didn't do what they said.”

“Did you do it?” Adam asked.

“I did.”

Adam stayed silent for a while, then asked, “How did you get out?”

“Dunno,” Dean answered honestly. He, too, rolled onto his side, facing away from his brother, but moved until their backs touched, a quiet assurance that he was still there.

Things were going to change soon. He wasn't sure how yet, but they would.

“Boys, come get some food!” Mary called from downstairs.

Apparently they were done arguing.

“Time to face the music,” Dean sighed, pushed himself up, and went to get himself a piece of fresh-baked apple pie.

 

* * *

 

“Step lively, Sam!” Brady shouted.

“Shut your fucking mouth, Brady!” Sam snapped back.

Maybe letting Sam go into that truck stop hadn't been such a good idea.

They still had miles of walking until they reached the tracks, and Sam had already leaned over the side twice to retch up the meager contents of his stomach. Brady had concluded that Sam probably had picked up a viral bug and would be put right with some rest, but they couldn't afford to stop yet. Not yet.

One step, two. Three steps, four. Sam silently cursed the weakness of his human flesh as his gut churned.

But every step was one step closer to victory.

 _Just a few more,_ he kept telling himself. _Just a few more. You made a promise._

Colt's Railroad was a legend among demons, and at the center was a Devil's Gate. It was despicably clever, to build a Devil's Trap of wrought iron around the door to Hell. From Sam's readings, that door hadn't been opened since the railroad was constructed.

That was about to change.

As long as he could make it there.

Brady circled back, eyeing the bag that Sam had refused to relinquish, saying he was fine on his own. The demon's doubt was obvious, but it was a lucky thing that Sam couldn't possibly care less about what Brady thought of him. He wasn't doing this for Brady. He was doing this for his family.

The bus ride had taken two days, and they had left directly from the station. The truck stop had been about ten miles back. Sam had gotten a bottle of some blue drink, and, with Brady's insistence, something called _Tylenol_ , which had alleviated his headache, even if his fever had not yet broken.

Brady walked silently at his side for a while before the quiet finally broke. “So, what was he like?”

“Infinitely glorious,” Sam replied, not needing clarification. “Beyond comprehension.”

Brady took a moment to digest that. “What will he do with the Earth?”

“Anything he desires,” Sam answered, swallowing down sick and wiping at his feverish brow. “And no matter what he does, the world will be better because of it.”

“You love him?”

“He's my savior,” Sam said simply, as if that answered everything. “My loyalty belongs to him. My mind, my heart, and someday my body will be his to command.”

“Figuratively or literally?”

Sam shot him a sideways glance. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Obviously, I've never met the guy,” Brady answered, sounding slightly more than irritated. “You're one of the only ones. Most demons don't even believe in Our Lord anymore. I wanted to hear about him from the mouth of our prodigal Boy King.”

Sam sighed quietly, exhaustion pulling at the threads of his mind, and he swayed on his feet. He kept walking. “He's so much more than you can imagine,” Sam said finally. “He's fury and glory and light and sound. I can't explain him, Brady. I don't think I ever could. But you'll find out someday, and hopefully soon.” He swayed again, but this time he paused. “I believe I'm dehydrated.”

“Drink some water,” Brady said, coming to a stop and turning to face Sam.

Sam grimaced slightly. He'd drank the last of his water after the last time he'd retched.

Brady sighed. “You're out, aren't you, genius?”

“My mouth tasted foul,” Sam replied defensively, crossing his arms and swaying in place.

“You do realize that we have at least ten more miles to the tracks?” Brady demanded. “And after you _somehow_ manage to break through solid iron with all your _marvelous_ strength, we have another fifty miles to the center!”

“I know,” Sam replied, slowly sinking down to sit at the side of the road. The sun was hot on his skin, burning the back of his neck.

“What in Hell's name happened to our fearless leader?” Brady snapped, growing louder by the moment and making Sam's ears ring. “You're supposed to be our Messiah, and you can barely get off your ass! You're worthless to us like this, _My Lord_ ,” he sneered.

Sam bared his teeth at the demon that was supposedly _assisting_ him. He'd about _had_ it with Brady's backtalk and rudeness. “You will show me respect,” Sam panted, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his sweaty hand.

“Or what?” Brady's expression was nasty, full of arrogance and disdain as he propped his hands on his hips and looked down at Sam. “You can't do anything about it.”

“Don't test me,” Sam snapped back. His bones _ached_.

“Don't _test_ you?” Brady snorted. “I could _kill_ you, _boy._ You're not _worthy_ of being called Hell's King.”

“Brady, don't—” His cells were _burning_. He was going to explode.

“Oh, right, wouldn't want to hurt your precious ego—”

“Brady—”

“You don't _deserve_ his blessings!”

Light erupted from inside Sam, tearing through his veins in much the same way as it had a few days prior when he'd first awoken. His spine was lit with electricity and fury, and Sam's vision went blank as he roared out the agony of his body being crushed under the weight of Lucifer's Grace.

He wasn't sure what happened, but when Sam opened his eyes, he was standing in the middle of a graveyard, and he was alone. His limbs tingled and his eyesight was still spotty at best, but he did manage to make out a shape he'd seen in drawings for hundreds of years.

Before Hell's King, the Devil's Gate awaited him.

Vertigo overtook him, and Sam passed out.

 

 

 

 


	29. 3:4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who's left comments! I promise I read them all and I'm working on catching up on replying to those with questions. I started work recently, so I'm more than a little behind on the rest of my life. Thanks so much for sticking with me so far!

Sam woke up to rain.

Droplets hit his face, and despite the warmth of what, judging by the light saturation, appeared to be evening, the water was cold. He was content to stare up at a blanket of gray until the moment a drop hit him directly in the eye and Sam winced away from it. He sat up, grimacing at his sodden clothes, and looked toward the Hell's Gate—still closed, as it would remain if he didn't get off his ass. He sighed and pushed himself up, wiping his middy palms on the thighs of his jeans.

His fever seemed to have broken—that was good, he supposed. He certainly felt better now, if a little tired. But that could be from the expenditure of Grace from his system.

... _Grace._

Sam swallowed, looking at his hands and flexing his fingers. It had been an accident. And because of that, now Heaven would probably be getting curious—he had to work fast.

Sam walked to the Devil's Gate, taking his multi-tool out of his pocket and making a wide gash across the palm of his hand. The sting was hardly a bother, and he ignored it as he dipped his fingers into the stream of his blood and started painting sigils across the door. They were complicated; some new, some incredibly old; this Gate had been made to last, but it had been made by a human. Samuel Colt was a clever man, and Sam had no doubt that this Gate was all but impenetrable from the inside, but he was _not_ inside. He was outside, and he was more than some witch that killed cats in the night and danced with demons.

The sigils dripped, but they glowed as each one was completed; the magic here was the canvas for Sam's masterpiece of breaking and entering. He didn't stop, even as his body was wracked with chills and the rain soaked him to the bone.

This was his duty. This was his _life._ This was the Second Seal, but the arrogant angels in Heaven believed it safe because of the iron fence. In the back of his mind, part of him remembered slicing through the tracks as he flew—because flight with Grace was not so simple as disappearing one place and showing up another, but moving incredibly quickly with minimal effort.

He wasn't made for that sort of sensory intake that quickly, not his body—but his soul was conscious and singing with power. Sam couldn't deny that, reluctant as he was to use it, he loved the feeling of Lucifer's Grace buzzing in his veins.

It made him feel close.

He would only be close again if he could do this. Strike fast and strike hard, or so his father had said. Azazel might be something of a rambunctious man, but he was also a ruthless leader. Sam admired his father's command of his underlings. None would dare to disrespect him, no matter the circumstances. By all means, Sam should have put Brady down just to prove his point. But there was more to it than that—he'd needed Brady's help, but only to a point.

With Sam's army at his command, Brady would fall into rank or he would die.

But Brady wasn't his priority. Sam had bigger metaphorical fish to fry.

Three layers of sigils, the outermost counterclockwise, then clockwise, and counterclockwise again. He smeared away the drippy bits with his thumb, careful not to let them literally bleed into each other, lest they corrupt the engine of power underneath. At the center of the circles was the latch, a complex puzzle of faded brass that would rearrange itself when the lock was broken. His demons would be free.

Sam smiled to himself.

On the four corners of the door were angel banishment sigils.

Sam stepped back enough so the door wouldn't hit him when it broke open. He began to chant.

 

* * *

 

If there was a cure to all ills, it was Mary Winchester's apple pie. Dean was sure of it.

He carefully ignored his parents as he scraped his fork across the plate, his belly warm and full, and he reached over to steal a bite of Adam's pie just on principle, not anywhere near disappointed when Adam smacked his hand away. He grinned to himself; while John and Mary tiptoed around him, Adam was already back to normal, like nothing had ever changed.

But everything had changed, and Dean could think of a handful of people that still needed knowing of that fact.

He desperately wanted to call Jess, but he knew anything less than a face-to-face meeting would only end with her hanging up on him and threatening him with death. Bobby might sway a little, but even with his parents' vocal confirmation, he'd probably still be suspicious. And Jo? Forget it. Either way, she'd kill him.

It would have to wait a few more days, in any case. Dean needed to get used to... needing things again.

He took care of his plate before Mary could swoop in and coddle him; if there was anything he needed right now, it was good, hard work. Hell had made Dean restless; he wanted to move, to do things, even though he was probably less than an hour from crashing.

“Dean,” John said when Dean attempted to bolt and find the next thing to fiddle with. “Sit.”

He did.

“Adam, go upstairs. It's nearly eleven. Time for bed.”

Adam didn't protest; it was hard to argue with a face like John's, which was stern on a good day and downright cold on anything less.

Mary lingered even when Adam was gone, and from the way John eyed her, he didn't quite like it—but since he didn't argue, they must have come to agree on it. Dean wished he had enough fight in him to protest. He didn't want to tell his mother about Hell. About what he did there.

“Now,” John said. “You're gonna talk, because I know you need to. And if you wait until you start getting better, it'll tear you right back to where you started. Talk first, son, _then_ get better.”

Dean tinkered with his unused spoon, feeling very much like a child as he sat in the kitchen with his parents staring him down from the other side of the island. It seemed like the only time they really backed each other up was when Adam or Dean had done something worthy of two-parent scolding.He felt about fifteen years old all over again, and Dean couldn't say that he liked it any better now that he was twenty-five.

“I said yes,” Dean said, his voice cracking. Mary's face twisted with confusion, but she didn't ask—John, however, looked resigned. And disappointed. And that more than anything was what hurt. “After thirty, I said yes. I was turning and my hands started growing back black, and my feet and the whites of my eyes—it was better to say yes, Dad. Otherwise, I would have—and then I could have—” Dean choked. “And Alastair just wouldn't shut up.”

John bared his teeth in a snarl. “If I ever get my hands on that sonuvabitch—”

“Who's Alastair?” Mary asked with carefully-constructed calm.

“The fucker that ripped my guts out day after day,” Dean answered, still staring steadily at his spoon, twirling it in his fingers. “It started normal enough, but he got creative once I started turning. Boiled me in salt and holy water because it hurt me as much as it hurt him.”

“You were turning—”

“Demon,” Dean affirmed. “When you're down there, all you are is a soul,” he started. “Most humans aren't hunters. Most break in ten years or less. I broke in thirty, but that was because I didn't want to turn like them. Didn't want to come back to the surface and hurt you for the fun of it. Because that's what would've happened.”

“Dean, you were only down there for four months,” Mary said hesitantly. She reached across the table as if to take his hand, but then thought better of it.

“Time's different down there,” Dean answered. He tapped the spoon against his palm. “I was down there for forty years.”

“And when you say you said yes—?”

Dean took a breath in; let it _woosh_ out slowly. “At the end of every day, Alastair asked me to pick up the knife. Said I could get off the Rack if I put others on.”

“To torture,” Mary filled in, her face going blank.

Dean nodded once, a sharp jerk. “And damned if I wasn't the best sonuvabitch there ever was. And the demons hated me even more because I was still human.”

“How did you get out?” John asked finally. His jaw was clenched. “I know you made a deal to make the trade, but how did _you_ get out?”

“Dunno. I just remember light—then I was waking up in a pine box in Pontiac, Illinois. Stole a car and drove back here.” Dean grimaced. “I don't like it any more than you, and I've got one hell of a scar on my shoulder, but whatever pulled me out wasn't a demon.”

“Show me,” John demanded, his arms crossed over his chest.

Dean obediently lifted the left sleeve of his shirt, baring the handprint on his shoulder. Mary looked stunned. John reached out to touch—but Dean jerked back, tipping over the bench and landing with a thump on the floor. His ass smarted and his head was a little wonky, and he had no idea why he'd done it, but—he didn't want anyone to touch it. It was special. It was _his._

“Dean, honey,” Mary said, and Dean realized she was crouching at his side, her hand carefully placed on his other shoulder—steadying, not demanding. She always knew how to be diplomatic. “Are you alright?”

“M'fine,” he mumbled, rubbing at the back of his head. “I'm just tired, Ma.”

Mary pulled him forward until his head was tucked against her neck, stroking his back lovingly. “It's alright, Dean. You're home, baby.”

He melted into her arms, uncaring that he was still on the floor. A floor was nothing compared to Hell, and a floor was totally worth staying in his mother's arms for a while. He'd missed her.

Maybe things could be okay now.

Maybe he could—

Someone knocked on the door.

 

* * *

 

Sam grinned, drained and victorious.

The blood sigils had lit into flame, steadily burning against the steel, red-hot and damning. Sam smeared his bloody palm over the lock on the door, letting out a breathless laugh when it, too, started to glow and burn with the touch of his blood. And then it began to spin.

When the doors broke open, it was like a bomb going off. Heat exploded outward and Sam reveled in it, in feeling _home,_ in smelling fire and sulfur and brimstone, pungent and familiar. And then came his demons—a few at first, tentative, and then a hoarde unlike any other.

Hundreds. Maybe thousands.

He backed up, his face split with a smile. “ _Torzul, tliob casarm c salbrox. Il adohi i abramg!_ ”

Though they were only smoke, Sam could hear the roar of the demons as they were freed, could see the oozing black that made up his subjects, his soldiers, his teachers.

His family.

“Sam Winchester!” A voice shouted from behind. Sam turned to see a man in a trench coat—but so much more than a man, he knew. He could feel the buzz of Grace—and familiar Grace, at that.

“Castiel!” Sam replied, no less thrilled. “I have to thank you for the ride out!”

Castiel stared at him through the blue eyes of the no-name human, revulsion clear in his expression. “You are an abomination, not worthy of being called a Creation of God.”

“Thanks!” Sam shouted back, a laugh punching through his chest. “But I have my own God!”

“I cannot allow this to continue,” the angel said, taking a step forward, sword in hand.

Sam tilted his head, his smile growing smaller, but no less present. He liked this angel, strangely enough. He was surprisingly forward. “Then you'll be disappointed,” Sam answered simply. “Because I'd rather not kill you. You freed Dean Winchester, and pulled me out by proxy. I hardly had to do a thing. I should be thanking you.”

As the tide of demons slowed, Sam knew it was time to go, lest he risk a confrontation. He had other things to worry about, now.

“I'll be seeing you,” Sam said with a smile. He reached inside, feeling the white-hot core of Grace that was bound in his soul, and let it pull him away. Between one step and another, he was out of Wisconsin and in Cold Oak, South Dakota. He would wait here for his family to find him.

And then the fun could start.

 

* * *

 

Sam Winchester disappeared before his eyes, and Castiel knew that this was much more than Heaven had ever expected. With a push of his Grace, the doors of the Devil's Gate closed, but he estimated that upwards of a thousand demons had been freed.

It was an army. And it was an army that Heaven itself would struggle with.

His brothers and sisters had to be warned.

But first, there was another family that needed warning.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Torzul, tliob casarm c salbrox. Il adohi i abramg._ — Rise, creatures made with sulfur. Thy kingdom is prepared.


	30. 3:5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience. Hopefully the content of this chapter makes up for the hours later than it usually is.
> 
> **Taking a hiatus until 7/23. Thank you so much for your continued patience while I deal with being a working adult.**

“It's eleven o'clock. Who the hell is at the door?” Dean asked.

Mary raised her eyebrows. “I thought you might've invited someone along after we talked to you. John?”

John shrugged in response, then crossed his arms. “I should probably get it. Last thing we need is for it to be a cop and have our dead kid open the door.”

Dean averted his eyes and frowned at the table. Mary shooed him out of the room, returning to rub Dean's back. “Just give him some time, honey.”

“It's not like I expected to suddenly _not_ be dead, you know,” Dean replied irritably. “And it's not like I even wanted to die in the first place. I just knew you needed Dad, and I was never home, anyway. It sounded like a good deal at the time.”

“You stupid boy,” Mary said quietly, kissing the top of his head and inhaling the scent of his newly-washed hair. “Didn't anyone ever tell you that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions?”

“Better than taking the highway, I guess,” Dean muttered, turning his face into her shoulder.

“Dean!” John hollered from the other room. “Someone here for you!”

Dean pulled back at that. Someone there to see him? He couldn't imagine why anyone would be—or how anyone could even _know_.

Unless...

He was on his feet in a second, flinging himself around the corners until he collided with the front doorway. John barely missed being tackled by pulling the door all the way open. He gave Dean a suspicious look, but Dean wasn't worried about him. He had a different concern now.

Namely, the man standing in the doorway.

He was plain, but not unattractive—probably a few years older than Dean. His body was stiff, almost as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. There was a boxy tan trench coat that hung, lank and lackluster, from his frame, the belt fluttering slightly with the night breeze.

His eyes never left Dean's face. In fact, he didn't seem to be blinking, like, at all. It was more than a little unnerving, and Dean swallowed hard. Dean could have sworn the man was made of stone—there wasn't even a little movement to reassure him that the man was _alive._

“Who are you?” Dean demanded, irritated and flustered, especially because this very may well be the person who yanked his ass out of Hell, and Dean was standing barefoot in his PJs. Not a great first impression.

“I am Castiel,” the man said simply, and Dean's mind froze.

Castiel. No, not _that_ Castiel. This was—it had to be some sort of a joke. Not only was this guy decidedly a _guy_ , there was just no friggin' way—he'd convinced himself a long time ago that the angel had been a product of his seven-year-old PTSD imagination.

And now—

“Bullshit,” Dean snapped.

The man tilted his head, the motion somehow delicate and deliberate like a bird on a branch. Albeit a very intimidating, extraordinarily large, imaginary bird.

Castiel took one large step forward and reached for Dean's arm—Dean jerked back, but the man was determined, and easily caught hold of him. Obviously the guy was stronger than he looked, because he pulled Dean forward without a hitch, and just when Dean heard John start to protest, Castiel pulled up the sleeve of Dean's shirt and exposed the handprint burn. His eyes were locked onto it with singular focus—almost looked like he wanted to trace the shape of it with his fingerprints.

Instead, he lay his palm directly onto the burn and let his fingers curl around the meat of Dean's shoulder.

A perfect fit. And, strangely enough, the touch didn't hurt like it had when Dean had touched it himself. No, this was so much more than pain. An overwhelming sense of purpose flooded into Dean's body; absolute conviction. And concern.

It was so much more than anything Dean had ever felt, and he felt his muscles begin to seize.

“ _I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition._ ”

And he remembered.

Dean remembered the stench of Hell, the screams of the souls under his knives, the howls of Hellhounds, his hissing frustration, the tarnished color of his own soul, long forgotten and dismissed. He remembered the shadow of a boy and the might of a man. He remembered the bars of a cage in the depths of a chasm. He remembered streaks of red on a softened face, tattered fabric tied around charcoal-streaked calves. He remembered the laughter of someone else. He remembered joy not his own.

_I will return to you. It won't be long, Dean. Go home._

Castiel.

_It's long past time that you walk free, Dean Winchester. I keep my promises._

Dean's muscles spasmed, once, twice, again. He could hear someone shouting.

_Sam._

He remembered.

 

* * *

 

Cold Oak, South Dakota.

More like _Middle of Nowhere, Earth Surface,_ if you asked Sam. Though he hadn't expected much, running water might have been a plus. Instead, there was something called a _well—_ a pit in the ground with an iron spout that drained rust-red water for nearly five minutes before it ran clear. He had to give credit to the humans—the fact that they could live like this, even long ago in the past; it was impressive. He splashed the clean water over his face and rubbed the dirt from his hands, regretful that he'd lost all but his knife. He would've liked to have the bottle for the water right then. Instead, he drank from his cupped palms before he wandered on.

He made it to the center of the settlement before he realized he was not alone.

Humans; one for each of the four buildings, each armed—two boys, two girls, all with cracked fingernails and dirt-smudged faces. They looked young, like him. None of their eyes flashed black.

Just human, then.

“Who are you?” Sam asked. He made note of the weight of his knife in his pocket. It was easily within reach, should he need it. Somehow, he didn't think he would—despite the fact that the humans were all armed (the dark-skinned man and brown-haired girl had knives; the scruffy man had a length of pipe; the blonde girl wore hand ornaments that protruded like spikes), they didn't seem overly hostile. Wary, certainly. But they would be fools not to be.

“I think the real question is _who_ are _you?_ ” retorted the brown-haired man with the starts of a beard. “We've been in isolation for five years, and you're definitely _not_ Azazel.”

“Quiet, Andy,” the dark-skinned man said, his eyes narrowed on Sam.

Sam frowned, taking in the small group of humans—his father had influenced them? But how—and why? They had to be important... so why hadn't he mentioned them? Were they part of the _other plans_ Azazel had spoken of?

“You better tell us who you are,” the blonde girl added, voice harsh and shaking, “before I get my hands on you.”

“Don't let my father hear you say things like that,” Sam replied idly, eyeing the congregation of buildings. “I don't know your purpose, but it won't matter if you threaten me—whether or not I can protect myself perfectly well.”

“And your father is?” asked the dark-skinned man, brow furrowed.

Sam tilted his head. “You're familiar with him, or at least I assume that you are. He has yellow eyes. He likes to talk.” He grinned to himself as the blonde girl paled. “Good, you do know him.”

Then, slowly and right before his eyes, the four humans sank to their knees.

“You're the Boy King,” the dark-skinned man said, and Sam was starting to get the feeling that the man was the unspoken leader of the group.

“I am,” he agreed with mild amusement at the alarmed twitch it elicited from the stubbled brunette. “You know me, then?”

“We're meant to be your soldiers. My name is Jake,” said the dark-skinned man. He nodded to the others; the stubbled one, the brunette girl, and the blonde. “They're Andy, Ava, and Lily.”

“Are there any more of you?” Sam asked.

“Not anymore,” Lily muttered.

Sam was intrigued. “Not anymore?” he repeated. “Why not?”

“Scott was stabbed by a Hunter,” Ava cut in. “That's why Azazel moved us here; so we were outside their reach. And Max—he couldn't take the pressure.”

“Shot himself,” Andy said quietly.

“Good riddance,” Lily hissed. “All he did was whine. _Boo-hoo, Daddy beat me_. Like the rest of us don't have problems, too.”

“Don't speak ill of the dead,” Jake said. “Or we won't extend that courtesy to you.”

Lily went silent.

Sam frowned. “Why did my father bring you here? Why were you being targeted?”

The humans exchanged a glance.

“Andy?” Jake suggested.

“Yeah, okay,” Andy agreed, and Sam was about to ask what he was talking about when he saw it. Flickering behind his eyelids, images—a montage of images, glowing eyes standing over cribs, dripping blood into babies' mouthes, the fast-forward of growing up, the memories of turning sixteen-and-a-half and waking up together in this place, scared and alone. The memory of being told by the yellow-eyed man that they weren't to leave, or their lives would be forfeit to the demons tasked with protecting them from the outside—and also keeping them in. Growing up from then on, honing abilities, training with weapons, learning to be soldiers. The splatter of blood on the walls, a curly-haired boy in a pool of blood. Jake stepping up as the leader, strong-arming the guarding demons into getting them what they needed (weapons, supplies for the girls). Jake teaching them survival skills as they all learned to hunt, to cut wood, to survive.

To kill the intruders that somehow managed to stumble through, and to hide the bodies.

They did more than survive, they _thrived._

And they were more than human—that much was clear as Sam grabbed hold of Andy's consciousness and forced it out of his mind. He came back to himself to see Andy stumble, blood dripping from his nose, and sighed under his breath. “Impressive.”

“What the hell did you do?” Andy demanded, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We're natural-made opposites,” Sam said by way of apology. “My power is on the superior end of the spectrum. I didn't mean to cause you harm.”

“What does that mean, _superior end of the spectrum_?” Jake asked. He frowned deeply, not moving to aid Andy, but watching him carefully just as well. “We're made part-demon, so what does that make you?”

Sam inclined his head. “What would your guess be?”

Jake's eyes flicked upward; wordlessly, Sam nodded. With a hiss, Lily bared her teeth in his direction, and Ava took a step back. Andy was still attempting to stem the blood flow from his nose.

“You deserve my trust if my father chose you to be my soldiers,” Sam said simply, carefully approaching Andy and tilting his head back, thumb and forefinger touching the corners of his eyes as he directed a tendril of energy to repair the trauma done by fracturing his mutated mitochondria. It wasn't enough to cause permanent damage—Sam had been less than forceful when he'd pushed Andy out, otherwise he'd probably be suffering an aneurysm rather than a nosebleed.

Breaking humans was a simple concept, even for the special ones. True angels dissipated spiritual energy, but that took massive amounts of force to pick apart each and every atom, which was why smiting was a rare sight to see over the typical slaughter done with the angel's blade. But Sam was less than a true angel—just another special human. He'd learned early on with Lilith that trying to use blunt force in combination with his Grace reserves would only make him exhausted and vulnerable. Instead, he used pinpoint force—which could do just as much damage under the right circumstances. After all, it took far less force for ice to infiltrate rock and break it apart from the inside than it did to strike the rock from the outside and expect it to crumble.

Angels dealt in explosions. Sam dealt in implosions.

And that was why he would win in the end.

“I am infused with the Grace of an archangel,” Sam said. “Your powers are strong, but demonic in nature. I was raised by demons, but I work like angels, to a degree. But that's another story for another day.” He pulled his hand away when the damage was repaired, satisfied as Andy wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He turned toward Jake. “I've opened the Devil's Gate. My family will be meeting us here once they've found appropriate vessels. In the meantime, I assume you have a place that I could rest—maybe something I could eat?” Sam didn't like asking for help, but the sooner he showed these humans that he was capable of trusting them, the more trust they would put in him, in turn.

Jake nodded slowly, and the special children crossed the courtyard, the girls slipping inside his dwelling first. Jake stopped Andy on the porch and looked him over, carefully inspecting his nose for signs of further damage. When he was satisfied, he let Andy, too, go inside—and then paused to survey Sam. His arms were crossed over his chest, but he looked thoughtful. Sam, in a show of good faith, slowly removed his knife from his pocket and handed it to him.

Jake stared at the silver knife in his palm for a moment before his fingers closed around it. “Somehow, I don't think a lack of a weapon would do much to stop you if you wanted to kill us all.”

“Probably not,” Sam agreed. “But I'm giving it up voluntarily, and now I'm depending on your hospitality. And the surefire way to lose that hospitality is to kill my hosts, isn't it?”

“True,” Jake admitted.

“You gonna let me in?” Sam asked.

Jake paused, but warily stepped aside. “So what should we call you?”

“I'm Sam,” he said, crossing the threshold.

“Nice to meet you, Sam-I-Am,” Andy replied from the other room. “So, how do you feel about green eggs and ham?”

Sam frowned. “That doesn't sound healthy.”

But he reluctantly smiled when the others started to laugh.

 

 

 

 

 


	31. 3:6

“ _Do not touch him.”_

“ _Like hell I won't! That's my goddamn kid right there and he was just fine until you came around, then he was having a seizure! Tell me one good reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in your skull.”_

“ _It would do me no harm.”_

“ _Yeah, whatever you say, bucko, but forgive me because I won't believe it until I've seen it.”_

“ _You are forgiven.”_

“ _Can you believe this guy?”_

“ _John!”_

“ _I find myself relieved that you are not the Righteous Man.”_

“ _You—”_

“ _All of you, shut up! He's waking up.”_

Dean opened his eyes to Adam crouching nervously beside him where he lay on the couch. He blinked blearily, taking in the sight of his father toe-to-toe with Castiel, who seemed utterly calm (which only made John look more angry in comparison). Mary was seated at his feet, her fingers toying with the elastic ankle of his sweatpants. She was worried, he knew. She only ever fidgeted when she was.

Dean groaned, doing his best to push himself up and ignore Castiel's unblinking stare. He felt like shit. If that was what a seizure felt like, he figured he would definitely pass on the next one.

And then it came back to him.

“Sam!” He shouted, his body spasming and sending him crashing back down. Castiel was at his side in an instant, a gentle but firm hand pinning him down, fingers splayed out over Dean's bare chest. His shirt was gone—this only confused him until he rediscovered the acrid taste in his mouth, and realized that he must have vomited. Great, just great.

The etched black ink of his tattoo nearly sent him back into spasms, but only until he realized that it was just like he'd had before—and the black was restricted to that area. His hands, his feet, his chest; they were still just flesh. They weren't blackened and rotting. He was human.

So was Sam.

His eyes went wide and settled on Castiel. “Where is he?” Dean demanded.

“I'm not sure,” Castiel admitted reluctantly. “But he was in Southern Wyoming until a short while ago.”

“Sam—you—” John spluttered to a stop. “Are you telling us that you know where our son is?”

“What?”

All eyes turned to Adam, who only looked confused. Dean realized with a sinking feeling that they'd never found the time or the words to explain the situation with Sam. Adam was blue-eyed and clueless, earnest and honest and a picture-perfect Boy Scout son.

It made Dean's chest ache.

“You are the third son of John and Mary,” Castiel said simply, with no amount of sympathy or even significance. Just fact. “Their second son was stolen from them in his infancy.”

“I have—” Adam looked between his parents and Dean, expression torn like a wounded thing. “I have another brother? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Addie—” Mary started, but Adam cut her off.

“No! You don't get to _hide_ something like that!” Adam clenched his fists. “So I'm the replacement kid?”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Dean snapped, and his tone alone was enough to have Adam's mouth closing with a _click._ Dean almost _never_ lashed out at Adam. He turned those watery blue eyes on Dean, and Dean scowled through his guilt. “You're not a replacement, Adam. I grew up with you. You're my brother, my little brother. Sam is—complicated. Sam is a ghost. But he's back from the dead, and...” Dean trailed off. “My metaphors are shit. But you're not a replacement kid. You're _the_ kid. _My_ kid brother.”

“Sam,” John said, voice flat.

Mary smoothed one hand over her face in a sad attempt to hide her crumbling expression. “What happened to him?”

Dean and Castiel shared a look, tense and uncertain—Dean hardly knew this guy, but he was more than _just_ a guy. He was also an angel, _the_ angel responsible for saving his life. And he knew about Sam—knew _more_ about Sam than Dean did. Dean didn't want his family to know the awful truth any more than he himself wanted to know it, but they deserved to know. After more than two decades full of tense silences, they deserved answers.

Dean nodded, just once. Castiel inclined his head and opened his mouth to speak. “There is a demon, Azazel. He took your son.”

A shuddery breath punched out from Mary's chest, and she curled in on herself. “Did he hurt him?”

“No,” Dean cut in. His mother looked at him with those watery eyes that made every son want to go to war for their mother. Maybe he would. “I didn't remember before Castiel showed me, but... I remember now.” He swallowed. “Yellow-Eyes raised Sam in Hell.”

Adam had gone pale.

John grit his teeth. “How is that possible?”

“It seems he was very careful to separate Sam's soul from his living body,” Castiel continued, “and raised that part of Sam in his own domain. However, Sam's body is whole—so there must have been a demon inside, building his strength, keeping him healthy and alive. Sam followed my energy when I pulled Dean from Hell, and his soul took its place in its rightful vessel. But to be able to do that... he'd more than just human. It is my belief that Sam possesses... Grace.”

“Grace?” John's face was pinched. “What do you mean, _Grace_?”

“Grace is the power at the heart of an angel,” Castiel answered. “It's pure creation, energy in its most raw form. It is the Grace of God, and it's not meant for any living man to possess.” The angel's forehead creased and his lips turned down into a frown. “That Sam possesses it is... concerning. At best. There is only one angel in Hell, and if he were to take Sam for his own, the results would be catastrophic.”

“Who is it?” Mary asked. “The angel in Hell. Who is it?”

“It's Lucifer,” Adam said quietly.

Castiel glanced down. “Yes. You know your scripture.”

“In the Cage,” Dean cut in, turning to face the man. “That was him, wasn't it?”

“You witnessed him?” Castiel stared at Dean, expression unreadable. “No one has laid eyes on him in thousands of years, Dean. Are you absolutely sure?”

“I followed Sam,” Dean replied. “And he and Sam...” Dean grimaced and went silent. He wasn't going to talk about what he saw; not in front of his family.

“They made contact?” Castiel demanded, voice raised.

“They seemed pretty buddy-buddy to me.”

“Then the situation is far more dire than we anticipated.” Castiel's eyes flickered over Dean one final time. “I must inform my brothers. Sam has already declared war.”

Finally, Mary's broken expression went hard, and Dean saw the warrior his mother had always been. “How?”

“He opened the Devil's Gate,” Castiel said. “He freed over a thousand demons.”

“That's a hell of a force,” John whistled.

“It's an army,” Dean answered.

“Demons never organize,” Mary argued.

“They will this time,” Dean replied. His jaw clenched.

Adam looked between them all before he asked the question that most needed answering. “Why?”

“Because they'll follow him,” Dean said. His eyes caught on the empty urn on the coffee table, and he let out a slow breath. “He's the King of Hell.”

The rest went unspoken.

_Now Hell's on Earth._

 

* * *

 

 

Being with the humans was a new experience for Sam. He expected to hate them, but they were surprisingly... likeable. They had something like a hierarchy, of which Jake was the leader, and he delegated their responsibilities in an effective manner. Sam was pleasantly surprised at the speed with which tasks were accomplished. And, when the work was done, they returned to each other for entertainment and companionship. Sam had never realized that a deck of cards and an oil lamp could keep four humans entertained over the course of a night. Now he knew.

Jake was wary of him, Sam knew, but that wariness seemed to pass with the hours, especially when Sam volunteered to help with tasks. He didn't imagine himself better than them—not really. Stronger, yes. But better? Were they not much the same? He never liked being idle, anyway.

And he remained engaged until the moment there was a knock on Jake's door. There on the porch stood a blonde girl with black eyes, and though the other humans tensed, Sam all but threw himself at her and wrapped her up in a hug.

He tucked his head into the girl's neck, pleased and relieved when her arms came up around him and she rubbed at his back. “It's barely been a few days for you, silly boy,” she groused, ruffling his hair. “Did you really miss me so much?”

“Just shut up and let me hug you,” Sam replied into the folds of her cherry-red leather jacket. He inhaled the scent of sulfur and envied her the weeks of burning warmth that she'd spent in his home when he had not. “All went well?”

“Yes, Sam, we're all here. The others aren't far behind me,” she assured him. Meg pulled back, her eyes flickering to something like green, and she smiled. “Now, My Lord, introduce me to your little friends.”

“This is my sister,” Sam said immediately, turning to face the soldiers. “You are to call her _Lady_ or _Mistress_ ,” he added. The soldiers grimaced, and Sam was about to insist when Meg cut in, “Screw that. I'm away from home, let me have my fun. I'm Meg.”

“You deserve your title,” Sam insisted, annoyed.

“They may as well call me _The King Mother_ for all the things I've done, Sam. They won't be answering to me, anyway. Father made them for you.” Meg tilted her head and surveyed them as Andy, Ava, and Lily peered over Jake's shoulders. “They're cute little killers, aren't they?”

“You leave them alone,” Sam replied with a grimace. His eyes scanned the land behind her. “Where are the Hounds?”

“I'll be summoning them,” Meg answered, hooking her arm through Sam's and inviting herself into the residence. She eyed the place with equal parts interest and distaste. “Dusty, isn't it?”

Sam rolled his eyes and endeavored to ignore her as they entered the living room and Meg claimed her place in a chair that spilled more stuffing than it held. “How far behind you did you say the others were?”

“They'll be here,” Meg assured him. Her eyes turned to the humans. “How are you liking your Lord and Master?”

Jake, diplomatically, did not say anything beyond an incline of his head.

“Good answer,” Meg replied to herself. She closed her eyes for a moment. “They're here.”

By the time Jake had turned around, Sam's family was waiting. There was Azazel, yellow-eyed and plain; Alastair, oily and sneering; Lilith, young and blonde and beaming; Crowley, dark-haired and sharply-dressed; Ruby, blonde and tall and glamorously dangerous; even Brady, curly-haired and stone-faced.

Sam's family.

“Alright,” Sam started, allowing authority into his voice. This was what he was born for. “You know the plan; we've gone over it a hundred times. You know that speed is of the essence. I will _not_ leave Our Lord in his prison any longer than absolutely necessary.” His eyes scanned the faces of the demons before him—here, none would challenge him. Not even Brady. “Father, Alastair—you know what must be done. Take whatever soldiers you require to lead your own squadrons. Lilith—take Ruby with you, I believe she'll be of use in the Seal of the Witnesses. Crowley, Brady; do whatever it is that you do. Don't get killed. Meg, you're with me. We'll raise the Hounds, raise Persephone, raise some hell.”

“What about us?” Jake asked.

Sam tilted his head and looked him over. “I don't have any particular care for my own garrison of demons. You can come with me. Do you drive?”

“I drive,” Andy spoke up, drawing an exasperated glance from Lily, and a grumble of _that hideous thing was not a car._ “I don't have a car anymore, though.”

“We _all_ drive, and I can hot-wire one,” Lily cut in. “But before we go anywhere, I'm going to need better gloves. These have holes, and I don't want accidents.”

“You can't kill any of us,” Ava said in confusion. “Or the demons. So who—?”

Lily gave Sam a pointed look. “No offense, Prince Charming,” she drawled. “But you're not exactly demon material. And it'd probably be pretty counterproductive if you dropped halfway through the war because I wasn't careful enough in passing the salt.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, silently doubtful about Lily's demon powers working against him, but—“Fair enough,” he agreed. “I need to learn to drive. If we can get a car big enough for all of us, we can take shifts.”

“If we're getting something permanent, we're treating it right,” Andy spoke up, reverence in his voice. “I'd love to get my hands on an Escalade...”

“We'll talk about it,” Jake replied shortly. “So, what now, boss?”

Sam nodded slightly in approval. “There's just one more demon we need. She'll take a little more... effort. And Heaven will be on our trail—will probably do just about anything to stop us from breaking her out. Are you sure you're up for this?”

Jake looked almost insulted. “I'm not going to even answer that. Where are we going?”

Meg smiled like a shark. Sam quirked a slight smile in return.

“Kansas.”

 

 

 

 

 


	32. 3:7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry I haven't had chapters up for the past few weeks. Fortunately, I'm back at school, and most of my writing gets done in class, so I have some motivation. I thought about holding off another week just to get more backlogged, but I could use the challenge. Enjoy, friends!
> 
> EDIT: Also, the wonderful **angles-have-the-phone-box** made a really lovely [graphic](http://roarofalannister.tumblr.com/post/56728522368/the-boy-king-by-maydei-it-always-had-to-be) while I was on hiatus! If you haven't seen it by now, take a look—and if you have, look again! :P Thank you so much!!

Deep within Stull Cemetery, there was a tree. Its gnarled branches twisted in on themselves, upward and downward and every direction. It bore no leaves and looked as though it hadn't in quite some time. Still, it was sturdy enough at the base that it had never fallen, and the cast-iron fence was enough to deter anyone from cutting it down.

Far underneath the tree, there was a body that had been the vessel of a demon long since exorcised by persons unknown. It was said that the power of the demon was so great that the flesh it had once worn would never rot. It only had to be reached, and the demon restored.

In times of war, the freeing of this demon was said to be akin to the breaking of a lock on a door. Not many knew what that meant anymore.

Some said the tree was indeed the deadened Tree of Life spoken of in scripture, left as a mark of shame. Sam didn't know how true that was, but when he arrived nearly a week later with his soldiers in tow, he had to admit he could see the legend holding truth.

He was out of the car before it had fully stopped (as Andy had desired, it was something called an _Escalade_ , and it had been Andy himself to obtain it simply by asking. There were no plates on the vehicle; an officer of the law had pulled them over to ask for license and registration, and with a suggestion from Andy, the man had turned and walked back to his patrol car and driven away. It was a most impressive feat). The earth squelched beneath his feet, and Sam once more appreciated having such sturdy boots.

It had precipitated last night; a bitter rain that had pounded against the roof of the car, lulling all else to sleep but for Jake, who was driving, and Sam, who had once again been plagued by nightmares. The vision of the room with the barred window had woken him up in a cold sweat, bile crawling up the back of his throat. He couldn't place why the dream left him with such a sense of dread—the room itself was simple enough, and he wasn't so cliched as to fear a stained-glass cross. But the Grace in his blood _writhed_ at the image stuck behind his eyelids, and that more than anything left Sam unsettled.

He shook his head; now wasn't the time. Sam knew it was only a matter of minutes before the angels realized the wards etched into the body of the car prevented them from entering the area. By the time they broke through, they needed to be gone.

His soldiers spilled from the car behind him, jogging across the sodden ground to take up positions at the points of the iron fence. “Quickly,” Sam instructed, reaching out to lay his hand on the five-point star the fence formed. “When the ritual is done, we'll need to break the barrier. The iron may burn you—but you need to keep contact.”

“We'll be fine,” Jake replied, face set like stone. “Do what you need to do.”

Sam nodded, his hand flexing about the iron bar. “If you say so.” He drew upon the Grace set into his soul, pushing it through his delicate veins, from the center of his heart and up and out through his arm, through his fingers, imbibing it into the metal. Sam's consciousness followed the molecules down, down, down—the fence was not just a fence, but a cage that extended tens of feet beneath the ground. At the bottom, he could feel something dark, massively powerful—Lucifer's final knight, waiting to be woken; Lilith's daughter, waiting to be reborn.

“Hand of the Father, blood of the Mother,” Sam said, his voice pitched low. “Sister of Horsemen, Lady of War. Pestilence passes you, Famine defers to you. Death is your shadow, consumer of hearts.” The Grace extended to the bones of the darkness, and to his satisfaction, he felt the darkness reach back. “Warmaster Abaddon, first of your name: I am Heir of Our Lord, you will hear what I say.”

He looked up to see Lilith walking the field, barefoot and lethally graceful, wearing the body of a blonde woman—always the blondes. She inclined her head to Sam as she stepped to his side, staring down at the iron barrier. “My daughter,” Lilith said quietly, reaching out to rest her hand against the iron. Sam could hear the sizzle of her flesh—though normal iron would not hold a demon of such high order as Lilith, this was iron forged in Holy Fire. Even against Sam's hands, the metal felt warm. He couldn't imagine what it felt like to Lilith. She didn't seem to even notice, though, as she lifted her hand from the iron and barely glanced at the ruined, blackened, oozing flesh. “I gave my blood once, I give it again. My flesh is thy flesh; become once and again.”

The Grace found the magic in the iron and latched to it, tearing at the threads that held the spells together. The progress was promising, until—

“They've noticed,” Lilith said, giving Sam a hard look. “Abaddon is bound to her vessel—it will be in pieces. You will need to put her back together before you can extract the Devil's Trap. When it's done, she will accompany you wherever you need to go.”

“Get out of here,” Sam replied. “No matter what happens, we need you alive. I can handle the rest.” Without delay, he turned his attention back to the iron, redoubling his concentration. There was a cold rush of air, and Sam knew that Lilith had gone.

“Jake, Andy, Ava, Lily; the iron is going to get hot. Don't let go. As soon as it's broken, we're going to need to dig her out.”

“Done,” Jake agreed, sparing a glance to the others. They nodded in return.

Sam steeled himself, then, and set to work—heating the iron until the Holy Oil boiled out.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew his skin was burning, as he knew his warriors' hands were being damaged like his. But his priority was this, was Abaddon—was the Seal.

One step closer to Lucifer.

“ _Torzul, micaolz Abaddon_.” Sam commanded.

He could feel pain radiating up his arms, could hear the quiet, labored breaths of the warriors. In the end, they were only human. He couldn't force them to stand much more of this.

Sound filled his ears—the screeching roar of angelic fury, overwhelming and inexplicably loud, and Sam's head felt fit to burst. He wasn't built to contain the roar of the angels, and he needed to let Lucifer's Grace settle, he needed to—

“Now!” Sam snapped, and ripped the iron away in tandem. The ground itself tore up around the roots of the tree, and Sam immediately dropped to his knees to scrabble at the dirt with broken, bleeding hands.

“Come on, come on,” Sam hissed. Jake, of all his soldiers, seemed most useful—his strength allowed him to tear into the earth with ease, to move it quickly. Down, down, digging around roots until they reached something—

A box. Sam's fingernails cracked as they made desperate contact with the iron box, the skin of his palms tearing open on the sharp edges. He hissed his frustration; the box was wedged into the roots of the Yew.

“Move,” Jake interrupted; Sam shuffled to the side just in time for Jake to _tear_ the box free and fall backward with the weight of it. The case was etched with runes, twice the width of Sam's shoulders, and the depth of his torso. A series of locking mechanisms held it shut—mechanisms they didn't have time to undo just yet, not with the angels hot on their trail.

“Go,” Sam wheezed, his Grace expenditure finally catching up to him. “All of you, up, we need to go.” He stumbled to his feet, hauling a pale-faced Andy up with an arm hooked around his back. “Come on, come on—Lily, up!”

The five of them sprinted to the Escalade, big and black and already comforting with the knowledge of the protection they'd written into the steel underbelly. They piled into whatever space they could, Jake stumbling into the front seat and stepping on the gas as soon as the engine turned. Sam could feel the wheels kick up dirt beneath them as he righted himself, helping Andy hop the center console to the passenger seat. He pulled the iron box into his lap and accepted the hair pin that Lily handed over without prompting, and starting taking apart the locks that held Abaddon's pieces in stasis. They all descended into exhausted silence, the only sound the whir of the wheels on the road and the _click-click-click-scrape_ of the locks sliding open one by one, and eventually, Andy's quiet snoring. Still, Sam waited until they were inside the demon's hospital to pop the final lock.

Azazel met them in the parking lot, his eyes bright and intense as Sam emerged with the iron box in his arms. Meg, standing tall at her father's side, went to help Sam, until—

“No,” Sam huffed out. Meg stopped short; Sam inclined his head toward the others. “They're hurt and tired. Help them first.”

“We _don't_ need—” Lily started.

“Accept kindness where it's offered,” Jake cut in, giving her a disapproving look. “Especially when in the company of demons.” His glance drifted to Azazel, and Sam remembered then that his father had been responsible for the siring of Sam's warriors. He wondered what kind of impression he'd made; what kind of relationship they all had. He was sure he'd find out in time.

“Jake,” Azazel greeted with sharp eyes and a toothy grin, stepping forward to give the man a hard pat on the shoulder that seemed more threatening than friendly. His yellow eyes took in the demon children before the returned to the de-facto leader of the group. “Seems you've been careless with your chickadees.”

“They were under my orders,” Sam said, interrupting what was sure to be one hell of a disparaging lecture. “Can we go inside now? The sooner I can put Abaddon together, the sooner we can move on.”

Azazel offered a sarcastic thing of a bow, smirking in Meg's direction as he turned to lead the way toward the old Nebraska hospital. They filed in one-by-one, and though the soldiers seemed unwitting enough at the change, Sam could feel the moment he stepped through the angel-repelling wards. It made his skin crawl (and the Grace just beneath, itching to get out). Piling in the elevator was especially strange, and Sam contemplated the odd learned behavior known as elevator manners, which apparently also applied to demons.

His arms were just starting to ache by the time that Azazel led them into an examination room, complete with medical table at just the perfect height for Sam to drop it onto. His hands were still torn apart and charred and filled with dirt, but he had a job to do that was more important than the keen sting of human flesh. Once the box was settled, he popped the final lock and opened the lid. Inside were bloody chunks of body—but recognizably human in nature. This was the destroyed vessel that Abaddon was trapped in. With a sense of interest (and revulsion), Sam located her blood-matted hair and lifted her head free. Once the piece was free from the boundary of the box, Sam waited—and within a manner of moments, the haziness of her polluted eyes started to fade, leaving only bright, cold blue.

When Abaddon's eyes moved independently to look at him, Sam had to admit he was more than a little disgusted. Still, her eyes took him in, as well as the company behind him, flicking from Jake to Andy to Ava to Lily, to Meg and Azazel, and finally back to Sam. Her lips were the faded, cracked red of old lipstick, but the teeth beneath were still intimidatingly white. Whoever this vessel had been was a well-kept woman.

Her eyes narrowed at Sam. “Did I hear that right, little boy?” she asked. Her voice was like smoke—insubstantial from years of disuse, but contained the promise of fire. “Heir to Our Lord? My, how the times have changed. Times had it once that Lucifer chose the _worthy._ ”

Sam heard the sound of snarls erupt from his warriors—though futile, it was somewhat comforting to have their loyalty affirmed. However, when he glanced to Meg and Azazel, they watched the exchange expectantly; Meg inclined her head to Sam and gave him a slight nod. With her encouragement, Sam squared his shoulders and set his jaw as he turned his attention to the demon's severed head. “Insult me as you will, but don't dare to speak badly of Him.”

Abaddon scoffed. “Little boy, he _chose_ me to speak badly of him. I was there to give him perspective.”

Sam could feel his eye threatening to twitch, but forced himself to stay calm, body loose and relaxed. “Perspective is a different matter from disrespect. And I would remind you that you're at my mercy and _my_ command.”

She bared her teeth. “I answer to no human boy.”

Sam snapped back, “I answer to no traitorous daughter. I'm glad we're agreed.” He moved to drop her head back into the box. “You've done what I needed to break the Seal. I have no need of you.”

“Wait!” Abaddon shrieked—not in fear, but with wild eyes.

Sam paused.

“You mean to raise him?” she demanded. “To break the Seals?”

“All and more,” Sam agreed. “Would you join me? Join your fellows, your mother?”

Her lips pursed. “Lilith?”

“She gave her flesh and blood to bring you back.”

She scowled.

“I can put you together,” Sam offered. “I can free you from being captive. I won't ask you to follow me—all I ask is that you do what you would do for Him. Help me to free Him. Break the Seals to His Cage. I will help you raise the Cerberus—and then you can do as you will. Ruin the angels. You are one of the few among us who is strong enough to manage it. _Will you help?_ ”

She matched gazes with Sam, and when she said, “I will,” she did not look away.

“Good,” Sam replied. He placed her head on the bench beside the box, turning to the others. “All of you, go get fixed up. Get your rest. I will work on this. We'll take a day to rest before we'll head back out.”

Jake nodded. “Whatever you say.”

He filed out, followed by the others, and eventually Meg and Azazel. Once Sam was left alone, he turned back to Abaddon.

“You were His right hand, once,” he said. Abaddon blinked slowly. “Tell me about Lucifer—what He was like when He was free.”

As Sam settled in to stich her together with heavy, black thread, Abaddon spoke.

Sam listened.

 

 

 

 

 


	33. 3:8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for helping me break 300 comments!! We're also two away from having 400 kudos, and we're slowly creeping up on 10k hits. I just wanted to say thank you so much to everyone that's read this story or reblogged it or commented on it! You're all awesome and you totally make my week every single week.

It was a good sleep.

Really, Dean hadn't slept this well in months. He'd been home for a number of days or weeks (he was losing track, he was just so damn comfortable), but he was starting to settle in. The horror of the past few months (years. _Years)_ wavered under a steady diet of home-cooked food and time with his brother and mother—and things were still tense with John, but they were getting better—and it seemed like maybe things would be okay.

You know, minus the whole Hell-on-Earth thing.

So that's why it was one hell of a disruption when he was shaken awake with a hand to his burned shoulder and a familiar voice rasped, “Dean, I need you. Wake up.”

There was a time when Dean would have rolled over with an irritated _what's going on?_ but those times were past. Instead, he shot upright—with a knife held tight in his hand at the throat of the apathetic Castiel. His heart thundered in his chest, and he swallowed heavily— _only Castiel,_ he reminded himself. _Just Castiel._

“What the hell,” Dean gasped, less of a question and more of a forceful hiss. “You can't just _do_ that!”

“I need you to come with me,” Castiel repeated, as if Dean hadn't heard him the first time.

“Yeah, so I gathered,” Dean snapped. “Why?”

“Sam is gaining momentum. We need to stop him.”

Dean flopped onto his back and lay an arm over his eyes. “That's great—so what do you need me for?”

“He's fascinated by you,” Castiel said. “And it's our belief that he still doesn't know his relation to you and your family. I know that you want to save him, Dean—and if you do, we have a small window of time before it happens.”

“What happens?”

Castiel inclined his head. “The Apocalypse.”

Dean jackknifed up, his arms windmilling to help him balance; Castiel grabbed Dean's shoulder to hold him steady. Dean jerked away at the rush of sensation that overwhelmed his tired senses. “ _What?_ ”

“I thought you should know.”

“You can't just _spring_ that shit on me!” Dean snapped, shoving Castiel's shoulder (and nearly breaking his hand in the process. Castiel is one step short of a fucking rock). “Castiel— _Cas—_ what do you _mean?_ ”

“Sam seeks to free Lucifer from his prison,” Cas said, the vaguest impression of emotion crossing his face at the nickname. “He's let loose a contagion of demons, but that alone isn't enough. Lucifer's Cage has a number of things keeping it closed—Seals. Sam is breaking those Seals. When he's broken sixty-six, Lucifer will walk free... and the Seals he seeks to break are almost impossible to track.”

“What, you don't have a list?” Dean snapped. “Seems kind of irresponsible.”

Cas' voice went hard. “There are over six _thousand_ Seals, Dean. Heaven isn't omnipotent. Sam is extraordinarily smart—he's been warding against angels, wards we believed were lost to humans. It's too smart to have figured it all out on his own.”

Dean heard the implication in his silence. “Lucifer.”

“Among others,” Castiel agreed sagely. “He's in the company of demons— _ancient_ demons, Dean, the _first_ demons.”

“Like Alastair?” Dean asked. He swallowed at the thought; his fists clenched.

Cas watched him with a sense of abstract interest. “Alastair is old, yes—but not among the oldest. It's rumored that Sam has the support of The Alpha Fracture.” At Dean's flat look, Cas elaborated, “The first break between Our Father and Lucifer—the first demon, Lilith. Her corruption was the start of everything.”

“Alpha Fracture, right,” Dean said. He picked compulsively at a loose string on his blanket. “And the other demons? Where did they come from?”

Castiel's gaze went far away, unfocused. “I wasn't created in those days, but to hear tell of it from Michael... Lucifer's supporters voluntarily Fell to Earth—became human. And those former angels that became demons, those became his Chosen. We had believed only one remained—Azazel, the Yellow-Eyed Demon, as you know him—and then this morning, Sam freed the demon Abaddon. She wasn't an angel like the rest, but she was singularly brutal, calculating. She was Lucifer's right hand. It took Michael himself to lock her away.”

“And now she's free,” Dean said. He pulled at a string, watched as it unravelled the edge of his blanket, pulled, pulled, pulled, and—“Fuck!” Dean exploded, slamming his fist against his bed. He bared his teeth and turned his furious eyes to Cas. “How the hell did this happen? How could you let this happen to him, Cas?!” He launched himself off the bed and onto his feet. “He's my little brother! You say he's important—he should have been protected!”

Cas at least had the decency to look contrite. “Dean, until you alerted me, we had no idea that Sam was gone. We were tracking his life force only, and we never sensed he was in danger.”

“And now you want me to clean up your mess,” Dean sneered. “Because you were too self-important to keep a closer eye on my baby brother.”

Cas stood with purpose, and the space around him seemed to shrink. He squared his shoulders with such conviction that Dean imagined he could see the shadow of flared wings on the wall behind him. “We made a mistake,” Cas said thunderously. “We know that. And we are doing all we can to set it right. Would you condemn your brother for the sake of your ego, so you could continue to say ' _I told you so_ '?”

“Don't pin this on me!” Dean snapped in return, going toe-to-toe with Castiel. The man—the angel within the man—infuriated him in a way he couldn't contain. The sense of self-entitlement, especially within someone who ruined so much for him, his family—Dean couldn't stand it. “This is your fuck-up, Cas. Don't try to distract from the fact that _you_ fucked up by telling me I'm wrong to be angry. _You're_ wrong.”

Dean noticed the flex of Cas' jaw, the clench of his fists—and he noticed when Cas deflated and stepped back, putting distance between them. “You remind me of Michael. I suppose it's no surprise.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Dean asked, thrown-off and perplexed.

“Never mind that,” Cas said with a slight wave of his hand. “Will you help me, Dean?”

He considered it. He couldn't deny that the thought of seeing Sam was not only exciting, but terrifying—now that he knew what Sam was, how could he go up against him? How could he hurt him? How could he be expected to _stop_ him? “Only,” Dean started hesitantly. “Only if you include my family.”

Cas stared at him, stone-still, and once more looking like an angel (not just an infuriated, exceptionally dangerous man). “They're not ready to face him. You are.”

“They'll never be ready,” Dean said with the rub of a hand over his face. “We need to _make_ them ready.”

Cas sat slowly, back straight, hands folded simply in his lap. “As you say.”

“You're damn right, _I say_ ,” Dean grumbled, turning his back on Castiel and stomping out of the room.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks hence found Sam engulfed in darkness, Lilith's knife held in hand, as he peered around the corner of a dark alleyway. He was in pursuit of a Reaper—one who took the shape of a pretty, black-haired girl. Though he knew that a Reaper couldn't be killed but for by its own scythe, the knife gave him comfort, for lack of a better (and more familiar) weapon.

Twenty-two Seals had been broken thus far; with the demons broken into small attack forces, Heaven was scrambling to keep up with their progress. Their targets were unpredictable (they had no way of knowing which Seal each group was after at any given time), not to mention the warding against the angels that delayed them long enough to allow the demons to make a swift getaway. There had been minimum casualties so far, and it filled Sam with a sense of pride. His plans were working.

They were winning.

But, then.

There was a roar of sound, of energy, that shook the ground and rent the air. From afar, Sam could hear the wailing of tens, of _hundreds_ of car alarms, reacting to the disturbance of the tranquil environment.

The hairs on the back of Sam's neck stood on end. For the first time, Sam's body reacted to his most basic instincts—fight of flight. Fear and adrenaline.

But Sam wasn't the sort of man or beast who ran away.

Thoughts of the Reaper were all but forgotten. There would be another day, another Reaper. Whatever had just happened, _that_ was important. If the angels had amassed some sort of weapon...

Sam took off, light and silent on his toes as he followed the beacon of energy to the source.

What he found made him fall still.

Splayed over the rain-wet pavement, a blonde woman lay pale and still, her hair laid out like a halo around her head. She looked peaceful, perhaps—she could have been sleeping, if not for the hole gouged through her heart. Still, her white nightgown remained unsullied; stabbed from behind, then, and hit the ground almost immediately after. Gravity had pulled the blood through her back as her heart fell still.

Burned onto the pavement beneath her was a set of wings, at least a hundred feet wide. Enormous, graceful—chilling.

In her hand was a shining, silver sword with a round, ridged handle, and a triangular blade.

An angel's sword.

Sam knew it was dangerous to stay. He had no wards to protect him, and it was only a matter of time until the regents of Heaven arrived to investigate what must have felt like a devastating loss. But there was something here, something about this sight that Sam couldn't walk away from.

In her place, Sam saw another. Dead on the pavement, Sam could just as easily imagine a figure... and the horror he felt at it churned his stomach.

The only thing that remained of this angel was a broken body. Was that what he would become? If they failed, would the only thing left of Lucifer be the burned impression of wings on the land they fell upon?

This whole time, Sam had believed he'd been ten steps ahead. The realization that Heaven was _distracted_ by its own problems came as a blow.

What if his plan wasn't as clever as he thought?

What if—when Heaven solved whatever problem plagued it—Sam _failed?_

The prickling on the back of his neck started anew; his time was up. Sam lunged for the fallen angel and took hold of her sword—this was a weapon he was more familiar with. It was a weapon that would allow him to kill angels without drawing on the Grace that Lucifer gifted him with.

Even in the loss of his certainty, Sam's acquisition was a victory.

With that thought repeating in his mind, Sam reached out through the universe and _pulled—_ and when he reappeared, he stumbled and fell, impacting with the floor of the Emergency Room.

For a while he simply lay there. He wasn't ready to move yet, wasn't sure his legs could support him if he tried to stand. For the first time, Sam felt... raw. Emotional. Maybe a little doubtful. Still, he curled his body around the angel blade, careful not to nick himself as he protects the one thing he feels is important.

It's late at night in rural Nebraska—there's no one in the ER, which meant it's the perfect place to brood, even if the comfort level of the floor left something to be desired. His body ached with the sort of dull throb that _suggested_ more pain than he was actually _feeling_. Between that sensation and the heavy exhaustion that made his head feel like a concrete brick, Sam wasn't moving anywhere fast.

Well, he wasn't—at least until Meg wandered in wearing a set of scrubs and hefted him onto a gurney. She carefully avoided touching the angel blade, but other than that, she was hardly careful at all. Sam was familiar with her lack of sensitivity in such a way that it was almost comforting that she seemed not to care. As she wheeled him through the halls, Sam lost slivers of time inside the sterile whirring of the wheels, the sounds of the elevator, Meg's distant humming that reminded him of home. When he found himself on a hospital bed in a darkened room, he started to return from the quiet space inside his head.

“You comin' back to me, Sam?” Meg asked, and Sam became aware of a warm body pressed against his side, a hand in his hair. He pressed up into her touch, seeking childish comfort; she swatted at the crown of his head in retaliation. “Cut it out, you big baby.”

Sam sighed, ducked his head into her shoulder, adjusted his weight. “Mem,” Sam grumbled.

“Nope,” Meg replied simply, pushing him away from her shoulder. Sam grunted in protest and dug his hands into the sheets to prevent himself from tumbling off the side of the medical cot. When he looked back to Meg, her arms were crossed over her chest, and she glowered at him from under her bleached-blonde bangs. “You're not my son right now, Sam, you're my brother and my King. You've been _coasting,_ here, at _best._ You're making a mediocre leader now that you've arrived. What's bothering you?”

Sam sank onto his stomach and pressed his face into the itchy pillow. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” Meg said. “You've been soft. Our father gave you a gift of soldiers and you haven't even broken them in yet. I'm insulted on his behalf.”

“I needed to get a feel for them,” Sam protested. “To know their limits, so I know where to push. And now that Abaddon is free, I can move on to bigger things.”

“You're stalling,” Meg insisted. “Sam, you're being so disgustingly human that I'm not entirely sure where you came from. I know that our people call you the Boy King, but you're not a boy anymore. You're just a King. If Lucifer saw you now, he would be ashamed of your behavior.”

Sam grew tense. His fingernails bit into his palms and he ducked his head. “Don't—”

“Someone has to,” Meg snapped. “And the sooner you get over this sad little puppy thing you have going on, the sooner we can stop talking about it.”

“I can't _sleep_ , Mem,” Sam said quietly. “There's something coming for me.”

“Then you'll just have to be prepared,” Meg replied. She rolled off the side of the bed, landing lightly on her feet, and wandering to the cabinets mounted on the wall. She rooted through the shelves of orange bottles until she found what she was looking for. She returned and pressed the vial into Sam's hand. “These will help you sleep dreamlessly,” Meg said. When Sam made to move away, she grabbed his wrist in a crushing grip. She stared at him hard. “Take them sparingly, and never take them around those you don't trust. You won't be able to defend yourself. You understand?”

“I understand,” Sam agreed. “When I raise the Hounds, they'll look after me.”

They lapsed into silence for a few long minutes.

“Meg,” Sam finally said. “I saw a fallen angel tonight. Slaughtered. What if—”

“You can't afford to think like that,” Meg said, reaching over to rest a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder. She sat at the edge of the bed, finally allowing him some measure of kindness, even as she tore the softness from his mind. “The angel you saw, Sam—they were so much less than Him. Lucifer is an archangel. God himself had Him cast out for fear of His rage. You don't need to be afraid for Him. You just need to do your job; be waiting for Him when He rises. And you can do that, can't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Not _yeah_ ,” Meg sneered. “Is it _yes_ or _no?_ ”

Sam scowled at her. “Yes.”

“Well, good,” she replied, smiling benignly. She patted his head. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

For all their sakes, Sam hoped she was right.

 

 

 

 


	34. 3:9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter. Turns out that emergency appendectomies put a bit of a damper on writing schedules.
> 
> Thank you in advance for 10k hits! We're so close!

They gathered in South Dakota, within the safety of Bobby's warded walls. Castiel was less than pleased to be working on Dean's time, but Dean refused anything less than having the full involvement of his family... _all_ of his family.

Dean had met the Campbells somewhere along the way, between Kansas and Oregon. They had sent him from one cousin to the next, one retired aunt to estranged uncle, until Dean could call upon any of them, depending on where within the states he was. His mother's family had seemingly boundless information on the supernatural, had libraries that all enthusiasts would eat their own faces to possess. It was a hunter's goldmine. Dean kept a journal of his own, hoped to pass it on if Adam ever chose to hunt, and hoped it would serve him well.

But that wasn't the point.

The point was that, by the time Dean arrived in the Impala with Castiel, with Mary, John, and Adam following behind in John's truck, there were five other cars parked in Bobby's front yard. Of them, Dean recognized two on sight.

He barely made it out of the car before he was punched soundly in the face.

“You son of a bitch!” Jess roared, dropping Dean to the ground before she followed him down with a knee to his sternum. “I could _kill_ you, Dean Winchester!”

“Jess—!” Dean gasped.

Between one second and the next, Jess had been hauled away, arm twisted behind her back by a stone-faced Castiel. Jess gasped in surprise and pain, but retaliated with an elbow to the gut—that elicited a howl of pain, but only from her. “Fuck! Shit!” Jess snarled, her eyes watering.

“You will not harm him,” Castiel glowered.

Dean stumbled to his feet and reached out, grabbing Jess' other arm and pulling her away. Castiel let her go, but watched with wary eyes. “Cas, _Jesus_ ,” Dean muttered. “This is _Jess_ , Cas.”

Castiel peered at her; his shoulders went stiff. “Jessica Moore?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean snapped, testing Jess' arm with his fingers. He turned his gaze to hers. “I know, you deserve at least a few more hits. Are you okay?”

“I'm _fine_ ,” Jess replied, and she jerked her arm out of his grip. She made a short nod at Castiel. “What the hell is that?”

“It's Cas,” Dean replied, his face flushing with embarrassment, but he talked right through it, even if he avoided looking toward the man. “He pulled me out of Hell. He's a little...” Dean trailed off and waved his hand in a vague sort-of way. “Look, whatever. Don't mind him.”

“ _Pulled you out of Hell?_ ” Jess repeated. “And you say _don't mind him_? You're an absolute idiot, Dean.” She rabbit-punched him in the shoulder. “Tell me everything.”

“Dean!”

Jess stepped out of the way just in time for another blonde girl to bowl Dean over. This time, though, Dean wrapped her up in his arms and lifted her off the ground. Jo jumped and locked her legs around his hips, her face pushing into his neck, dampening his skin with her tears. Dean inhaled the scent of her hair with relief. If it weren't for the instinct to support her, he was sure his legs would've buckled.

“Oh, Jo,” Dean sighed, his hands rubbing her back, reveling in her warmth. “Oh, sweetheart, I missed you.”

Jo had grown into a beautiful woman. At twenty-two, she'd filled out in a way that her body at seventeen could never compare to. She'd grown her hair out into these huge, gorgeous barrel curls, the kind that made much better men than him weak at the knees. Dean's fingers wound into her hair, held her close; he'd missed her so much more than he could put into words.

He held her up, rocked them gently, waited for her to stop crying as he tried to quell the sick feeling in his stomach for making her cry at all. “Hey,” he whispered. “I'm okay, Jo. I'm okay. It's so good to see you.”

Jo pulled her face away from his neck and socked him _hard_ in the shoulder. Dean yelped and nearly dropped her, but Jo managed to land well enough on her feet. She grabbed him by the shirt and gave him a good shake; over her shoulder, Dean made eye contact with Castiel, who looked both fiercely irritated and slightly confused.

“When I said _you bring your girl to me first_ , you being _dead_ wasn't the reason I had in mind!” Jo hollered, and gave Dean a hard shove. Dean stumbled back, watching her with sad eyes. Jo made an agitated noise before she was hugging him again, hands digging in hard enough to bruise. “Christ, Dean. I thought I'd never see you again.”

And then, to Dean's (and the rest of the collective audience's) surprise, Jo whirled around and launched herself at Castiel, her arms wrapping around his waist, her face pressed to his tan trench coat.

“Thank you God, Jesus, whatever the hell you are,” Jo said. “Thank you. _Thank_ _you._ ”

When Cas looked at Dean then, it was with wide eyes and a dampened look of panic. If Dean hadn't been so surprised by Jo all but ambushing Cas, he might've laughed that the angel was reduced to a rigid shell by a slender, baby-faced blonde. But, then again, Jo had that effect on most men.

Dean pulled Jo back gently by the shoulder, freeing Cas just in time to say, “My name is Castiel. I am not the Christ Child.”

Dean snorted.

Castiel continued, “I am an angel of the Lord.”

Jo paused. Jess froze. Bobby, who had come to stand on his porch to watch the spectacle, tightened his grip on his ever-present shotgun. “Ain't no such thing,” Bobby barked.

Dean stepped around Jo to lay his hand on Castiel's shoulder—a warning to Bobby, whose gaze turned to Dean in turn. “There's a first time for everything,” Dean replied, staring back and making his claim clear. If Bobby was going to shoot Cas, he'd have to shoot Dean, too. “So, meet the thing. This is Cas. He's with me—and he's gonna save our bacon.”

Dean jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder in turn—when he whirled around, though, it was Mary that stood behind him, along with John and Adam. His family.

At the sight of Mary's support, Bobby finally relaxed enough to seem more than a minute from a heart attack. “Fine,” he huffed. “Whatever you say. Just get your asses inside. Word is that you've got news.”

Dean sighed and exchanged a glance with Castiel, once again holding his stoic mask in place.

Yeah, did they _ever_.

 

* * *

 

 

“Again,” Sam ordered.

Surrounding him, his soldiers charged forward—in Ava's hands were a set of small knives held between her fingers; Andy held a short sword, blade barely as long as his forearm; settled against Lily's knuckles, a set of spiked rings forged from the holy iron added a more damaging weapon to her fists; in the hands of Jake were two guns, and another strapped to his thigh. They worked well together, Sam had to admit—

—just not well enough.

With a slight push of Grace, Sam diverted Ava's thrown knife back toward her handle-first and ducked, letting Andy's sword swing over his head, and landed a sharp jab with his fingers to Andy's ribs, sending him stumbling backwards. Lily snarled and threw two quick punches—Sam turned on his heel to let them miss his torso, and threw one of his own that impacted her sternum with a heavy _thud_ , knocking the breath from her lungs. Jake looked a though he had the most conviction of all, not hesitating to fire a rapid series of shots at Sam; still, with a flick of his fingers, the bullets stopped short of him (five, hovering sadly in midair, nothing more than simple metal, now). This didn't seem to stop Jake, who launched himself forward, lashing out with the butt of his gun toward Sam's temple. Sam brought up an arm to stop Jake short, and they engaged in a fierce exchange of blocked blows. They struck back and forth, but Sam noticed the concentration in Jake's eyes, as well as Andy's fallen body behind him. Sam drove Jake back, his fists slowing enough to bring a gleam to Jake's eyes, which quickly turned to alarm when he tripped over Andy's downed form. He landed on his back hard, and Sam quirked a slight smile, hands settled on his hips.

“Where did you go wrong?” Sam asked.

Jake groaned. “I lost focus on my surroundings.”

“And you underestimated your opponent,” Sam added. “You believed you were tiring me out and you got complacent. You can't afford to act like that, especially not with our enemies. Some of them will be human, yes—but they're trained as well as the rest of you. Others won't be human, they'll be angels. You _need_ your cunning and your human mind. They see you as inferior and underestimate _you_. You'll lose your advantage in that if you do the same in turn. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Sam turned his attention to Andy. “You overextended your arm and left your ribs open. If you're going to attack, you have to commit with your whole body, not just your hands.”

“Understood,” Andy wheezed.

“Lily, we need to work on your feint and your defense. Straight punches aren't going to work against Hunters. You've been relying on your hands and your flesh, but in leaving those exposed, you're leaving yourself exposed. We're going to have to figure out a way to make your skin protect you better. I'll look into defense runes and we'll figure out a way to make your offense into your defense.”

Lily nodded once and adjusted the rings on her fingers.

“Ava,” Sam started. Ava flushed and rubbed her head from where the handle of her blown-back knife had impacted and sent her stumbling. Sam offered a tiny smile as consolation. “You've got a strong arm, but that's not what I'm thinking of for you. Out of the rest, you have the strongest telekinesis—we're going to hone that. Throwing knives is good as a last resort, especially if you can conceal them beforehand, but if we can teach you to move them discretely and in silence, your assassination skills can be of great use. I'll set you up with Meg; she can teach you more about harnessing demon powers than I can, and she's an excellent weapons master. She's been looking for a new protege.”

“Who was her last apprentice?” Ava asked, curious.

Sam grinned. “Me.” Ava's eyes went wide. Sam stepped forward to offer her a hand and pulled her to her feet. He gave her hand a slight squeeze when he saw the remnants of embarrassment on her face. “Don't be embarrassed by me defeating you. I've been trained by the best tutors for thousands of years while I lived in Hell. I wouldn't expect you to be able to get me down. _But,_ ” Sam added, turning to haul Andy up. “If you _can_ defeat me, you'll be ready for anything. That's what I want for you. I want you to be ready.”

“To break the Seals?” Jake asked, already standing again, watching Sam carefully.

Sam shook his head and let out a soft breath. “To be prepared for what comes _after._ To be worthy warriors for Him.”

“What about you?” Lily asked, pushing herself up. She straightened her shoulders in a shadow of strength, but her eyes held concern.

Sam licked his lips compulsively and crossed his arms over his chest. “I'll have other responsibilities. The best thing I can do is to teach you how to defend yourselves, to make you strong. Lucifer will not have the time or the patience to teach you how to be useful—but if you're useful from the start, you will be treated as well as He is able to provide. And if I'm the one to teach you...” Sam trailed off and swallowed. “I can only hope he will accept you as important to me, personally.”

“And he'll be good to us because we're your soldiers?” Lily asked, crossing her arms in turn.

Cold as she seemed, Sam could see the distress in the lines around her eyes. He took in a breath and let it out slowly. “He'll be good to you because you're my friends.”

“Friends?” Andy asked, hushed and uncertain.

Sam square his shoulders and raised his chin. Someday, he wouldn't be here to protect them, to teach them. Yes, they were his soldiers... but the lingering threads of fondness connected him to them as he'd never felt for any but his family. He'd never really had friends before, but... he was willing to try. And judging by the bright note in the faces of his soldiers, they were willing, also. “Friends,” Sam repeated firmly.

Friends.

 

* * *

 

 

Hypothetically, Dean knew that Castiel was a soldier. However, it had never been so clear as when Castiel stood before the map mounted on Bobby's wall, pointing out sites of conflict between Heaven's forces and Sam's. He looked serious on the outside, as he always did—but there was a fierce sort of power in the way he paced, in the set of his shoulders. He was clearly war-born, but that communicated well when it came to Hunters.

Despite being squished between Jess and Jo, Dean's attention was focused on Cas.

“Sam himself has struck here, in Southern Wyoming,” Castiel pointed out. “At the location of the Devil's Gate. He released countless demons before we were able to force the Gate closed.”

“Countless—are we talkin' hundreds?” Bobby asked, leaning forward from his place on a lumpy couch.

“Thousands,” Castiel corrected gravely.

Bobby leaned back and sank into the cushions. Dean watched as Mary reached over to pat the back of his hand. In a normal year, Dean heard of maybe _three_ demons. _Ten_ could be devastating. But _thousands?_ That was beyond anything that Hunters could deal with.

“That's—”

“Apocalyptic,” Castiel said simply. He nodded his agreement to Dean. “And the other demon he freed, Abaddon—she's far above Holy Water and Latin exorcisms, salt circles and the like. The last time she walked the Earth, she brought down cities, entire civilizations.”

On the third couch sat three people Dean was only mildly familiar with—a woman that had once been known as Grace Campbell, now Grace Hollis—her husband Frank, and their daughter, Gwen. She was only a few years younger than Dean himself, he knew. She was supposedly something of a Hunter, but that didn't matter to Dean, not when she looked right at Mary and said, “Good kid you turned out, there.”

Dean was on his feet and lunging at her in a heartbeat, only held back by Jess' hand wrapped in the back of his shirt.

“Don't you dare!” Jess hollered. “Dean Winchester!”

“Don't talk to my mother like that!” Dean roared.

It didn't matter to him that Gwen was being thoroughly cowed by her parents; didn't matter that his mother was stone-faced and impassive; didn't matter that Gwen was his cousin, his family. It didn't matter that Jess was trying to hold him back.

It didn't matter until a hand fitted over his shoulder. Dean felt the fight drain from his body, and his knees buckled. Castiel held him by the shoulders and lowered him slowly back to the couch.

“Cas,” Dean said weakly in protest.

“Stop it, Dean,” Castiel replied quietly, and gave his shoulder a warning squeeze. “This is not fitting behavior for you as our Righteous Man. Don't let such petty words break you.”

“I—”

“Hush,” Castiel said. He returned to the front of the room and crossed his arms over his chest. “This isn't the time for petty conflict,” he said, addressing them all, but with a hard glance at Gwen. “What happened to Sam is the fault of Lucifer and his minions. What's most important is that they're stopped _before_ Sam and his forces are able to set Lucifer free. And at the moment, we're losing.”

“ _You're_ losing,” Gwen pointed out with a frown.

Castiel inhaled slowly and seemed to inflate, and the room went very still. “If _we_ lose,” Castiel said slowly. “The Earth will burn. And _we_ will _all_ lose.”

All was silent.

“So,” Castiel continued, “Should I continue, or would you like to leave as we endeavor _not_ to die?”

Gwen said nothing, settling back against her seat with her arms crossed.

“Excellent,” Castiel said what what might of even been a hint of open disdain.

Dean snorted under his breath. When Castiel looked at him, he didn't quite smile, but Dean could see in his eyes that he wanted to.


	35. 3:10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I had my appendix out last week, so I'm still not at the top of my game. I thought I wouldn't be able to finish a chapter in time to get it up today, but it looks like I had more written in the document than I thought, so I managed to add enough to feel less guilty about putting it out. Keep in mind, this is fairly short compared to what I've been trying to do, but I think it'll be worth taking the time to put it up. 
> 
> This is where shit starts getting real. 
> 
> I'll try to have a better chapter for you next week!
> 
> PSA if anyone draws fanart for the opening scene I will most definitely love you forever.

“Sam!” Meg called.

“What?” Sam grumbled.

Meg rounded the corner into the hospital lounge and stopped. Two couches had been pushed together to form one large seat. Hospital blankets and pillows made the couches into something of a nest, which held Sam and his friends at the center. Meg's eyebrow steadily rose—both Ava and Lily were in little more than their undergarments, and the boys weren't much better. They were all sprawled together, legs entangling, heads pillowed on thighs and stomachs. Ava's head was tucked against Andy's shoulder. However, they all had enough presence of mind to turn their eyes to Meg.

With his arm around Lily and one leg trapped under Jake, Sam sat somewhere in the middle. In his hand was a colorfully-covered book featuring childish artwork.

Meg tilted her head, then—

“ _Harry Potter_ , Sam? Really?”

Sam scowled. “You're one to talk, _Harlequin_.”

Meg sniffed and lifted her chin, staring down her nose at them. “You're reading children's books when you should be training?”

“We've been training for three weeks—and it's one in the morning. And _you're_ the one that said we should get more accustomed to human culture.”

“Kid's books weren't what I had in mind,” Meg replied.

Sam rolled his eyes (a terrible mannerism that drove Meg up a wall; he'd picked it up from Lily in the prior weeks), folded the corner of the page, and closed the book. “Did you want something, Meg?”

Meg itched at the arms of her vessel; the scrubs were a constant irritation in her ploy as a nurse. Still, she never looked anything less than fabulous with her blonde hair and smoky eyeliner, high, pretty cheekbones, and slender figure. But today, Meg looked more than that. She looked fierce. Victorious.

“Father wants you and your kids to meet him in the office.”

Sam sat up straighter. “More Seals?”

Meg shook her head once. “Abaddon and Persephone are leading the legion. We're up to thirty-four. No—Father said there's something special he's been cooking up for a long time, something that's finally ready for our use. He wants you to pick it up personally.”

“Weapon?” Sam asked.

Meg's smile was sharp.

Sam pushed himself up with a groan, making his way out of the nest with the others following close behind. He stood before Meg in a pair of black boxer-briefs, arms crossed over his bare chest.

“You might want to get dressed first, Milord,” Meg added, eyebrows raised.

When Sam turned, he was hit in the face with a wad of fabric—purple, with ruffles. Sam flushed and chucked Ava's shirt back at her, diving in to wrestle his own out of Lily's hands.

By the time the conflict was over, Sam was all but swimming in Jake's camouflage and Meg had gone.

“Hurry up!” Sam barked, scrambling after his sister.

No one had the heart to laugh at Andy for the purple shirt he ended up with.

 

* * *

 

 

“It's a funny world, huh?” Jess asked, seated on the countertop, feet swinging as she nursed her third beer. “All your problems come back to demons.”

“ _Funny_ isn't the word I'd choose,” Dean replied quietly, leaning up against the stove. “ _Fucked up_ is more along the right lines.”

“Fucked up or not, you're brother's still around, Dean,” Jess said. “Sam. You've got a chance to save him you know?”

“You didn't see him. You didn't see the way he was.” Dean tapped his empty bottle against the metal of the crooked burner. “I want to save him, and I think I might be able to, but... that's a lot of stuff that I'm worried I can't just fix.”

“He's alive,” Jess repeated. “You can fix it.”

Dean glanced at her and reached out, hand resting on her leg and giving her a comforting squeeze. “I'm sorry.”

Jess' fingers flexed around her bottle. She didn't look at Dean. “You just disappeared, Dean. You said you'd be back in a few days, but then I got the call, and—” Jess cut herself off to take another long drag of beer. “It felt like losing them again. And I can't take that, Dean. I can't. So you need to promise me that you're gonna live through this, okay? Or you'll wait until I kick it first.”

“You're not gonna die,” Dean said quietly.

“Just promise me.”

Dean leaned in to nudge her with his shoulder. Jess hesitated, but knocked him back.

“Yeah, Jess, I promise. I'm not gonna leave you alone in this. And Cas—Cas'll keep an eye on me.”

“He's a weird guy, that Cas.” Jess finished her beer and tossed it into the sink. “A good guy, yeah—way tense. But he's weird.”

“He's not human. He's not like us.”

“I know that, Sherlock,” Jess huffed, knocking into Dean again. “But he doesn't seem like an angel, either. And he's got a fixation with you, y'know? Watches you all the time.”

Dean shrugged, uncomfortable. “It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing,” Jess argued. “And I don't know enough to know what it is—but it's not nothing.”

They sat in silence, shoulders pressed together. Jess rested her chin atop his head, one arm winding around his back. Dean turned, standing between her legs to better give her a hard embrace.

“God, I just—I missed you.”

“Oh, honey,” Jess sighed, petting the hair at the back of his neck. “You're okay, Dean. You've got your family, you've got your friends, you've got me. You've got angels watching over you.”

Dean pressed his face against her shoulder and tried to breathe steadily. “I hate this,” he huffed. “Fuckin'—cryin' like a little girl.”

“Nothin' wrong with being a little girl,” Jess replied. “Have you seen the little girls today? They kick ass.”

“Shaddup.”

Jess thumped him on the back with a laugh. “Fucker,” Jess said affectionately.

Dean snorted and yanked Jess off the countertop, held her up as he spun her around until they crashed into the kitchen table. Jess yelped with pain and Dean felt breathless laughing, his eyes still red and swollen.

Footsteps—a shuffle of sound. When they turned, Cas was standing in the doorway—face blank, but eyes hard as he looked them over, lingering on Dean's splotchy face and wet cheeks.

“Cas,” Dean said, breathless and gravel-voiced.

“Are you well?” Cas asked.

“Ye—Yeah, Cas, I'm fine.” Surprisingly enough, it was the first time it felt like the truth.

“I need you to come with me.” Cas eyed Jess, a frown creasing his forehead. “Both of you.”

Dean set Jess on her feet and made sure she was steady before he turned back. “Is somethin' wrong?”

“Some new information has come to light,” Cas said. “This is the first time we believe we might have a leg up on Sam. There's an area in Nebraska, a five mile radius around a small town called Alliance—it's blacked out. My kin cannot see inside, and we cannot _get_ inside. Blackouts sometimes happen in the presence of solar flares or cosmic imbalances, but it's been over a week. It's time to look into it. Reports from inside the town cite strange deaths. We believe Sam might be meaning to break another Seal there. If that's true, we need to get there as soon as possible.”

Dean nodded, but Jess looked perplexed. “Whaddya need me for?”

“You're a hunter,” Cas said, head tilted. “And you may provide a unique perspective.”

“What does that mean?”

Cas said nothing.

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “Cas,” he said impatiently. “If you need both of us, you might as well tell us why.”

Cas' nostrils flared briefly and his shoulders tensed on a strong inhale. “Very well,” he said. “Jessica, what do you know about a boy named Jesse?”

Jess went pale.

 

* * *

 

 

“You have news?” Sam asked, sweeping into the office where Azazel was waiting. The soldiers trailed behind him in form, falling into step at his side once Sam came to a halt.

Azazel peered at them from over his desk, hands folded over a set of documents he was working on. His yellow eyes were lit with the sort of cruel amusement that had seen many men to their deaths, often with Sam as a witness. “Yes,” he agreed, and sat up straighter, watching like a hawk as Meg took her place at Sam's right side. “I have an investment that's matured, and I need you to oversee it from now on.”

Sam held his arms behind his back, posture straight and chin lifted. “And the nature of this investment?”

“A child,” said Azazel. “A special child, much like yourself.” Sam's eyes narrowed and he inclined his head for his father to continue. “His name is Jesse. I had plans or a child like him to be conceived much earlier, but my first experiment with the concept came out less than what I desired.” Azazel tapped one long fingernail on his desk. “Jesse is my masterpiece, version 3.0 of my pet project.”

“And version two?” Sam asked, voice hard.

Azazel pointed one-by-one to each of Sam's friends; Jake, Andy, Ava, and Lily. Each straightened up under his scrutiny.

“Explain,” Sam commanded.

The humor dropped from Azazel's face, his lip curling in irritation. “I believed that if I could conceive a human child with the powers of a demon, we would have the perfect allies on the inside of human society. My first experiment was a failure, Sam—a demon in the body of a male procreated with a female, but the child's powers were minimal and not at all what I desired. I scrapped the idea.

“Then came version two,” he said, eyeing Jake. “Where I took a series of human-born infants and fed them demon blood at the age of six months. It was just long enough to let the initial protection from the mother wear down so that they were vulnerable to the demon condition—it's like a virus—but it was early enough that the powers developed within them over a long period of time. But for all that your warriors have been rather successful, their powers took more time to develop than I wanted—and I didn't need an army, Sam, I already _had_ one. I wanted a weapon, an ace in the hole.

“Which brings me to version three,” he said. Azazel scraped his fingertips over the dark-stained wood surface. “Where I backtracked to the original plan, but instead of looking at the sire, I looked at the mother.”

“The mother,” Sam repeated.

Azazel nodded, his good mood returning with a smirk. “Yes, the mother. But to be sure, I used the same humans. I had a demon possess the mother prior to conception; the human conceived a child with his mate, and the demon carried the spawn to term. The human man never realized anything was wrong. As for the wife, well—the humans called it postpartum depression. And it didn't matter; the child started showing signs of power from a young age. The family had an _unfortunate accident_ , and we put the child under the care of another clueless couple and under close supervision.”

“How old is the child now?” Sam asked with a frown.

“Eight,” Azazel replied. He echoed Sam's frown. “It's not ideal, but his powers have been getting him noticed. You go, you pick him up, you get him back within our wards before the angels can catch up. This is going to be considerably more dangerous than anything else you've dealt with, but you _will_ deal with it. We cannot allow the angels to get their hands on the child.”

“In that case, we'll leave immediately,” Sam said. “We'll bring basic provisions. Where is the child?”

“Not far.” Azazel stood, drawing a map out of his desk and laying it open. “I took this hospital specifically because it was close. The child lives no more than an hour or two from here. We'll have the advantage.”

Sam traced the route with his fingers; he nodded. “Have the address ready for me.” He turned to the others. “We leave in twenty minutes.”

He slipped out, going in search of the gear he knew Azazel stored in strange nooks around the place, and made note to himself to bring his angel blade.

Sam had the feeling he was going to need it.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	36. 3:11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr user **drakkons** made a really awesome fanart and y'all should most definitely [CHECK IT OUT](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/91649332317/drakkons-it-always-had-to-be-sam-winchester).  Like always, if the original source of the art isn't linked, it's either because the original source or blog has been deleted or both, which since TBK's been around a while, tends to happen. I try to keep the links updated as best I can. 

Objectively, Sam knew they were probably overdressed. But there was something in the snug fit of the bulletproof vest he wore under his clothing that was comforting—and made him worry far less about the others. Jake, he knew, was tactically trained to begin with, and the others had made huge strides in the past three weeks of training, but it didn't stop Sam from wondering if they were ready.

He knew he would be fine, of course, one way or another. But _them—_ they were a variable he could not predict.

“Why did we pack extra clothes?” Ava asked from the mid-row seats, wedged between Lily and Andy. “We won't have time to change and we won't be staying long enough.”

“It never hurts to be prepared,” Jake answered from the driver's seat. Sam stared out the windshield at the nighttime landscape rushing by. The headlights flashed bright over the open highway; it wasn't far, now, he knew.

“Whatever you say, sir Boyscout,” Lily grumbled. Under her sleeveless turtleneck and faded jean cutoffs, he knew she wore steel-plated armor from the clinking it made against the seatbelt buckle.

“Hey, worst-case scenario, we use them for bandages,” Ava cut in, wearing a sleeve of chainmaille under her cable-knit sweater.

“Don't say worst-case scenario,” Andy groaned, all but swimming in one of Jake's army jackets, iron plates fitted in the lining. He swiped a hand over his forehead. “Have you never seen a horror movie? As soon as you say worst-case, it gets worse.”

“He's right,” Sam agreed, even if he knew very little about horror movies beyond those classic few they'd forced him to watch. “Azazel says it should be routine, but we need to be prepared for the worst. As soon as the car stops at the house, we need to be out. There's no reason that any uninvolved people would know to stop us, it's much too late at night. Anyone who gets in our way, we need to assume they know what we are and are armed and prepared to kill us.”

“Then it's a good thing we're armed, too,” Lily said, fiddling with the iron rings on her fingers.

They each instinctively grasped at their weapons, their touchstones (Ava's knives latched to her hips, the guns strapped to Jake's thighs, Andy's short-sword in his forearm sheathe, Sam's angel blade tucked into his sleeve, stolen from the corpse of a Fallen).

“Don't get cocky,” Jake said quietly, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the sleeve of his camouflage. “We can't afford that.”

They fell into silence.

Twenty minutes later, they crossed the town line into Alliance, Nebraska.

 

* * *

 

 

Across the street from the old house, Dean and Jess crouched behind a hedge, hands itching for their guns. The windows were dark, no signs of activity inside, but Castiel had sworn this was the one—at least until he ordered them to stay put and vanished to god-knows-where.

“What the hell is he thinking?” Jess hissed. “We're like sitting ducks, Dean! We have no idea what's coming.”

“Something wicked this way comes,” Dean muttered under his breath.

Jess socked him in the arm. Her hands were shaking.

“Hey,” Dean said quietly. “Calm down.”

“What if he's right?” She demanded. “What if it's Jesse? He won't have a clue who I am. Maybe I won't even recognize him.”

“ _Calm,_ ” Dean insisted. “Jess.”

She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She pulled up blades of grass, jaw clenched tight. She rolled the grass between her palms. “Why would they take him, Dean? What would they want with him, anyway? He was barely six months old. They _found_ his _body_.”

“They found his _remains_ ,” Dean corrected, eyes sharp on the house. He swallowed. “You know what demons are capable of.”

“Yeah, but faking the death of a baby? Why?” Her nails were caked with dirt, enough that Dean could see them in the dark. “What if this ties back to Yellow-Eyes?”

“I wouldn't be surprised at all,” Dean replied. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. “We still don't know why he attacked you, Jess, and we still don't know why he let you get away. Why he cut you up. If this kid really is your brother...” Dean shrugged helplessly. “Maybe you had Hunters in your bloodline. Maybe he picked your family out of the phone book. We can't know unless we get to him—and the best way to get to Yellow-Eyes is to get to the kid, whether he's your brother or not. And, honestly, we could use a leg up right about now.”

It was with those words that Castiel returned, his hand clenched tightly on Dean's shoulder. Dean grumbled in irritation, but Castiel cut him off with a look. “Sam and his warriors are coming,” Cas hissed. “Up, _up._ Go, now!”

Dean and Jess took off, sliding the clips into their guns as they sprinted across the street and thundered up the stairs. They shared a glance before Dean kicked the door in with a heel to the frame. Jess slipped in first, Mary's old pearl-handled Taurus held at the ready as she shouldered around corners, Dean at her heels. Castiel followed, his strides brusque and with purpose. They followed a trail of muffled sound into the living room, where a woman and young child there huddled fearfully on the couch, still bleary-eyed, the television stuck on the menu screen of some sort of children's program DVD. From the near-empty bowl of popcorn kernels on the floor and the rumpled blankets tangled around their legs, Dean figured they'd fallen asleep watching a movie and had never made it up to bed.

He felt a pang of pity for the woman, who looked terrified at the prospect of them invading her small-town home.

“Please,” she begged. “Take whatever you want, please. Just don't hurt us. You can have anything you want, _please._ ”

“We're not here to hurt you,” Cas said gruffly—and not at all comforting.

Dean flicked on the light switch, holding up his hands as he slowly returned his gun to his thigh holster. He gave a look to Jess, who, while pale, did the same. “Lady, we're here to protect you,” Dean said.

“You broke into my house—!” The woman said, her voice cracking mid-shriek. “Sorry, but I don't feel very safe!” She clutched her son close to her chest, who looked at them with big brown eyes. Big, brown, _dry_ eyes.

“Listen, we don't have much time,” Jess said, voice unsteady as she held out a hand. “There are people coming here _right now_ to take your s– _son_ away. We need to get you out of here.”

“Is there anyone else in the house?” Dean demanded.

“I— _no,_ but—”

“Julia Wright, daughter of Gale and Jason Wright, a member of the flock of _St. Frances' Catholic Church_ every other Sunday, I ask that you come with myself and these people,” Castiel said, eyes unblinking as he stared her down.

Dean nearly groaned.

The woman stared back, but eventually swallowed. “Are you the angel Gabriel?” she asked.

“I am not The Messenger,” Castiel answered gravely. “But I bring you a message anyway. You are in danger. Please allow these people to help you. They have only your best interests in heart.”

Julia's eyes bled traitorous tears, and though Castiel was focused on her, Dean was looking at Jesse. Jess, too, was fixated on the brown-haired boy. Jesse stared back, face unreadable, looking mildly interested and not at all afraid.

“I'll get our things,” Julia murmured.

“There's no time.” Dean cut in more harshly than he'd intended, but the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. He'd learned to trust that instinct. “Come on, up, _now._ ”

Dean was helping the woman up, Jess with her hand on Jesse's shoulder, when the room went silent.

A shiver went down Dean's spine.

Jess sucked in a breath.

Dean, Cas, and Jess turned as a collective unit.

Standing in the doorway were five shadowed figures. One stepped through, the light breaking onto his coltish body and angled face.

“Dean,” Sam said, hands on his hips, mouth curving with a smile that spoke of being pleasantly surprised. “Fancy seeing you here.” Sam inclined his head to Cas and gave him a quirk of his brow. When his gaze settled on Jesse, Sam's smile went wide and genuine.

It made Dean's chest ache.

“Hello,” Sam said warmly. “You must be Jesse.”

 

* * *

 

 

He hadn't expected to see Dean Winchester in the living room of the house, but of all the people Sam thought he might go up against, Dean was by far the most interesting.

Castiel was rigid, and in the dusty light of the old house, Sam could almost see the shadow of flared wings behind him. Sam clicked his tongue, mildly interested—but Castiel wasn't his objective, here. He'd prefer not to kill the angel of the Righteous Man; they seemed fairly close, and he didn't want to make Dean any more upset with him than necessary.

“I'm Jesse,” the boy agreed. He looked at Sam with a sense of wonder... in such a way that Sam had never been looked at before. He saw intelligence in the child, interest. From the way his eyes went sharp on the shadows behind him, Jesse knew there was something different about Sam.

Sam liked not having to explain himself beyond necessary.

He glanced at the television shining behind the clumped figures of Dean, Cas, the blonde girl, and the boy's mother. _God in the Stars_ , the title read. Sam fought the urge to snort, initially—but made a thoughtful noise. He nodded toward the screen. “You like astronomy?” Sam asked.

Jesse's nose wrinkled. “You mean science?”

Sam nodded.

Behind her son, the woman made a pained noise. Jesse didn't turn to face her, but he tilted his ear in her direction... and shook his head. “I believe in God.”

Sam could feel the uncomfortable shuffling behind him of his soldiers. Dean and his fellows were stone-still. No one wanted to make the first move.

Sam was fine with that.

Sam crouched down to Jesse's height. Down here, they were equals. Being seen as equal was important for a child. “You can believe in God and believe in science,” Sam said. Jesse looked surprised. Sam continued, “after all, if you learn about science, it helps you understand just how great He is. To be able to make the stars out of fire, suspended in the sky. To be able to make each human out of a trillion little pieces. I think it's amazing. I think God must be awfully powerful to be able to make the world as He did.”

Jesse nodded with understanding, lips slightly parted in awe.

“Are you the ones who are after us?” The woman asked, her hand tight on her son's shoulder. Jesse winced.

Sam looked up at her. “You're hurting him.”

The woman swallowed visibly, but did not release the boy. “Are you?”

“ _After_ you?” Sam asked. He shook his head. “Of course not, ma'am. I understand this is a hostage situation?” The woman looked startled. Sam straightened up and brushed his hands off on the fabric of his black pants. He then held his hands up, loosely, attention on Dean as he frowned. He flicked his eyes toward their guns. “I've dealt with this man many times before, ma'am,” Sam lied smoothly. “Charming as he is, he's dangerous.” He inclined his head toward Castiel. “I expect he told you he's an angel of the Lord?”

The woman went pale.

“Sam, what the hell are you doing?” Dean grit out.

A whisper of sound; Sam felt one less presence behind him, but made no show of it. “Dean, I know what you must think of me,” he said quietly, ignoring Castiel's near-silent hiss. “But you made a deal with the devil. I did everything I could to help you. I'm sorry that it wasn't enough.”

“You _lie,_ Sam,” Castiel said, stone-still and furious.

Sam grimaced. “I don't suppose you'd surrender your weapons and let me remove the family?” In the opposite doorway, Sam sensed one of his own come to a halt. He flexed his fingers and felt a squeeze against them in turn. Ava, then.

Jess scoffed. “You manipulative, lying son of a bitch.”

Sam blinked. “I don't believe I've met you. Jo, maybe? Or are you Jess?”

Jess shot a glance to Dean. “You told him about me?”

Sam smiled. “Jess, of course. I'd say it was nice to meet you, but I'm afraid you've put me in a bit of a pickle.”

“Fuck off!” Jess snapped.

Jesse's mother winced.

Sam felt a touch at the small of his back; ridged rings. Lily, ready on his mark.

Dean took in a deep breath. Castiel reached out to wrap his fingers around Dean's wrist; a comfort and a warning. Sam pretended not to notice.

“Let us have the mother, then,” Sam said. “As a sign of good faith.” Confusion twisted their faces. Sam simply held his hand out, palm up. “Julia Wright, correct? Ms. Wright, slowly.”

Shocked as they were, they didn't know to stop her in time.

Julia Wright wound around them, her hand falling into Sam's. Behind him, Lily reached for the woman in a show of comfort.

The moment that her hand fell into Lily's outstretched fingers, the woman collapsed, her heart stopped.

All hell broke loose.

With one sharp shove of force, Ava sent Dean sprawling into Castiel, knocking them both backward into the wall. Jess drew her gun and fired off a shot—it hit Sam square in the chest, and he huffed out a shocked breath at the impact it made on his lungs, but his vest had done its job. With a series of quick steps, Sam ducked under her arm and pushed it up at the elbow, drawing a pained shout from Jess as her gun clattered to the floor. Sam followed with a foot behind her ankle and his shoulder to her sternum, sending her sprawling into the television. She was knocked dizzy, but not quite unconscious. It was well enough for now.

Sam turned on his heel, seizing Castiel's trench coat by the collar and hauling him to his feet. His other arm fully extended, and the angel blade dropped into his palm.

Sam shoved him against the wall, sword arm raised.

“Don't!”

Sam paused.

Much the same as he had Castiel, Andy had Dean in a headlock, short sword held at his throat. Lily stood over Jess in a wide stance, ready to strike, while Ava's telekinesis held her down. Jake's gun was leveled at Dean's chest.

But it was Dean that had spoken, face flushed with exertion, a bruise blooming on his jaw. He was furious, naturally, but there was panic in his eyes—not for himself, but for his friends.

“Why not?” Sam asked simply.

Dean looked to the side. “Not in front of the kid.”

Jesse stood in the center of the room, looking for all the world as if he hadn't moved an inch. The boy was looking at the fallen form of his mother.

Jesse looked up. “How did you do that?”

Sam pursed his lips. He couldn't very well engage the child if he was holding Castiel here, now, could he? With that in mind, Sam smiled.

And shoved his blade through Castiel's borrowed human flesh.

 

 

 

 

 


	37. 3:12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm surprised at how many of you thought I would kill off Cas so soon in the game. No way, Jose. I've got plans for the lil nugget.

“Cas!” Dean's heart thundered in his chest when he heard Castiel scream. Dean struggled, uncaring of the blade that started to tear into his skin. “No! Cas!”

“Dean,” Cas wheezed.

Dean went very still.

Sam stepped away, head tilted to admire his own handiwork. The angel blade, wherever he'd gotten it, was shoved through the meat of Castiel's left shoulder and into the wall behind him. Pinned. Sam had literally pinned him up like a fucking picture, taking in the ethereal light leaking from Cas' vessel with interest, like he was a thing to be observed.

Dean was horrified.

“Now, stay put, Castiel,” Sam said, reaching out with a forefinger and touching the sword. Cas let out another pained shout as the blade became bright red. He went to grab it, his his hand came away burned. Cas leaned his head back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, pained breaths punching out of his chest on every exhale.

“Lily, put your hands away. I don't want valiant Jess touching what she shouldn't.”

A blonde woman rolled her eyes and stepped away, moving back until she was at Sam's side. Her arms crossed over her chest, and she spared a glance to the corpse at her feet, nudging it with a toe. “Too bad about the foster,” Lily said simply, giving Jesse a shrug. “Sorry, kid. To be fair, she wasn't your mom, anyway.”

Dean felt his stomach sink.

Sam didn't stay still, though. Cool as you please, he approached and plucked the gun from Dean's holster, returning to where he stood as he disassembled it. His fingers were strong and sure. He'd done it before. Dean glowered openly as Sam stashed his gun, half in each pocket.

“How did you do it?” Jesse demanded.

Sam crouched back to the boy's height, careless of the blood splatter on his hands. _Cas'_ blood.

“We have special powers,” Sam said quietly. “Not all of them are nice, but we didn't get to choose.”

“Like superheroes?” Jesse asked. His voice wavered.

Slowly, Sam shook his head. “Not quite. We weren't born with our powers, Jesse. Not like you were.”

“ _I_ have powers?” the boy asked. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Really?”

Sam smiled. “ _Really_ ,” he agreed. Sam sank to the floor, crossing his legs and looking like a child as he sat across from the boy. He even rocked slightly back and forth. Then his face went serious. “Castiel, up there? Castiel is an angel. I'm kind of an angel, too. But my friends, they're kind of demons, and that's okay, because we work for an angel.”

Jesse sat down across from Sam, tilted just enough that Dean could see his face, see the contemplation in it. “But if you're an angel and Cast—Cassie—”

“Cas,” Sam cut in.

“Cas,” Jesse echoed. “If Cas is an angel, too, why did you hurt him?”

“Cas works for a different angel,” Sam said reasonably. “His boss and my boss are fighting. They don't like each other. His boss doesn't like demons, but I do.” Sam smiled up at Lily for a brief second before he leaned toward Jesse and whispered, “I'm kind of the Demon King.”

Dean wanted to puke. Sam was about to wrap this kid up with a smile and a song, and meanwhile, Cas was bleeding out—Grace-ing out— _whatever._ “How about you call of your dogs, huh?” Dean snapped, careless of his interruption. “You took my gun. Let me check on Jess. Let me check on Cas.”

Sam looked up, considered, and nodded. “Be careful, though,” he warned quietly. “That blade won't just burn Castiel, it'll burn you, too.” With a jerk of his head, Sam's _friends—_ Dean wanted to hurl; they weren't friends, they were _minions—_ returned to his side.

Jesse seemed to remember then that Dean existed. The boy looked Dean up and down with a chilling lack of concern for what _should_ be a terrified kid. “Who's he, then? And her?”

Sam rested his chin on his hand, gesturing with the other. “That's Dean, and that's Jess. I offered Dean a job, but he won't take it. I wish he would. But his family doesn't like demons, either—they hunt them like people hunt animals. Jess is a Hunter, like Dean.”

Jesse frowned. After a long few moments of contemplation, he turned back to Sam. “Why are you here?”

“I want to teach you,” Sam answered. “You've got powers, Jesse, but unless you learn how to control them, you could hurt yourself or other people. I know a lot of amazing teachers and all of them want to help you, too. You could be so strong, but only once you know how.” Sam pointed to Dean where he crouched over Jess, fingers pressed to the pulse in her throat. “Dean and Jess? They want to take you away from here, but they don't know what to do with you. They don't know how to teach you, Jesse. And your mom, your _real_ mom, was a demon.”

“That's not true.”

Dean helped Jess sit up, and she groaned, but continued despite the blood congealing at her hairline. “It's not true,” Jess insisted. “Jesse, honey, you're _not_. Whatever they say you are, you're _not._ ”

Sam frowned, exchanging a glance with the others. “I'm afraid you're mistaken, Jessica.”

“Jesse's mom wasn't a demon!” Jess insisted vehemently.

“How could you possibly know that?” Sam asked.

“Because,” Jess hissed. “Jesse is my brother. Jesse's mother was _my_ mother.”

Then—

A terrifying light entered Sam's eyes as he smiled.

“Is that so?”

 

* * *

 

 

So _this_ was Azazel's prototype.

Sam was good at guessing when it came to many situations, to feeling out the twists before they came to light, but _this_... this was just too good.

Jesse's forehead wrinkled with confusion as he looked at Jessica. “I don't know you,” he said.

Jess looked pained beyond her physical ailments. “You're eight, right?” she asked. “Born March 29th?”

Jesse nodded.

Jess' eyes were all for her supposed long-lost sibling, but Sam felt the prickle of eyes—Dean. Of course it was Dean. He quirked an eyebrow back at the man, who still looked betrayed and furious and sickened. Too bad, that.

Sam stood and reached out to lay his hand on Jesse's shoulder, drawing the boy's attention. “Even if she is your sister, Jesse, she doesn't know you. And she isn't like you.”

“She doesn't have powers?” Jesse asked softly.

“Not like you do,” Sam replied. “If you're Batman, she's Robin.”

“Don't lie to the kid,” Dean snapped.

Sam raised his chin, looking down his nose at Dean in irritation. “Believe it or not, Dean, I don't actually make it a point to lie to my allies. What you know about this situation is minimal and biased. Your information and your _informant_ are unreliable.” Sam sneered at Cas, whose face was pale and clammy. “Trust that I know more about my own people than you do, Dean, and it'll save you a lot of trouble.”

Jess reached for Dean's hand and squeezed it in her own until his knuckles went white. Sam observed the action with vague interest. She looked so much like a normal girl. Sam wondered if she even knew what she was, what she could do.

“Jesse,” Sam said then, turning the boy by the shoulder and letting his hands rest there, a comfort. Big brown eyes looked up at Sam, uncertain. “We might not be superheroes, but superheroes were right about some things. Friends and family are important.” Sam's hand lifted and rested on Jesse's head. “But only if you're strong enough to stand beside them. Only if you know that they're prepared for the world you live in. And you know what else?” He ruffled the boy's hair. “Family doesn't end with blood. Family is here...” Sam touched Jesse's forehead, “...and here...” lay a finger over his beating heart, “...and here...” Sam reached out with one hand to gesture to his friends. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Jesse inspected Jake, Andy, Ava, and Lily individually. He took in Dean, Cas, and finally, Jess. He straightened; turned back to Sam. “Are you going to take me with you?”

Sam paused. His answer here could very well affect everything for better or for worse, and he had to word it carefully.

“If you would like to come with us,” Sam said slowly, “we'd love to have you.”

Jesse took a deep breath and nodded, stepping closer and taking hold of Sam's wrist, stepping into the space between Sam and his friends. The boy seemed genuinely pleased from their acceptance, and the others reaching out to offer reassuring touches only made Jesse settle more. In moments, Jesse seemed comfortable in a way he hadn't since they'd arrived. Accepted into the fold of Sam's warriors, the boy finally seemed comfortable enough to let his exhaustion show. Sam nodded, and Jake didn't hesitate to scoop the boy into his arms, letting him settling into his shoulder.

Sam all but crowed with victory, turning his triumphant smile to Dean, Jess, and Cas. Cas, of course, didn't look too great—his hands weakly attempted to grip the hilt of Sam's stolen blade, mouth opening in silent pain as he repeatedly burned his fingertips. Grace leaked from the wound, even if it didn't bleed, due to the cauterized flesh. Castiel's vessel would take some healing, if he managed to heal at all. It was a shame—his vessel was a beautiful man.

The man might've been battered, but the angel inside was weak as well. It was with that thought in mind that Sam decided he could afford to let them go. They'd gotten what they'd come for.

“We should go,” Sam said, looking back to his soldiers. “Jake, you first. Andy, Ava, you next. Lily, on me.”

Lily stayed to Sam's right as the others filtered out. Dean looked ready to lunge after them, but grudgingly let them go. Sam knew Dean's weakness. Unfortunately, Sam shared that weakness. Perhaps, though, it was fortunate; Dean's weakness was also his advantage, and now Sam shared the same. They relied too much on their friends and family. However, while Dean put them first, Sam had a priority.

Sam stepped forward, his hands folding at the small of his back. “Dean, I hope you understand what you're dealing with.”

Dean bared his teeth. “We'll be ready for you next time.”

Sam sighed, expression sympathetic (and prideful, but he did truly bear sympathy for Dean's plight). “Dean, you see this as a lost battle; for us, this was a skirmish, at worst.” He extracted the pieces of Dean's gun from his pockets, slotting them all back into place, but not before emptying the clip into his hand and pocketing the handful of bullets. He offered the gun back to Dean handle-first. “I appreciate what you're trying to do, Dean. Really, I do. But you're not hearing the whole story.”

“You want to let Lucifer out. There's nothing more to hear.”

Sam exchanged a look with Lily. She shrugged—it was true, Sam supposed, but that was the basic idea at _best._ “Would it be so bad?” Sam asked softly, a tinge of his true longing breaking through. “Do humans not slaughter each other—steal, lie, cheat? Angels have skewed His name into a horror story, but the truth was that He was once the brightest star in the sky. He was God's favorite. Lucifer had no quarrel with the human soul, but He saw how flesh perverted them, and Dean, he wasn't _wrong._ ” Sam set his jaw, his hands settled on his hips. “The angels would have it said that Lucifer drove humanity to sin, but the truth is that He didn't _have_ to. Eve ate the apple and Adam followed. Lucifer punished her disobedience by making her outside mimic her inside, and so Eve became Lilith, mother of demons.”

“Bullshit,” Dean hissed.

Sam's lip curled. “You'd believe the Bible, written by a group of lying old men, over the word of the one to _experience_ it? God got angry. He had Lucifer cast out by Michael. You may not believe what I say, but you know that's true. And here's the best part.” Sam stepped forward, hand curling around the hilt of his sword, and he wrenched it out of Castiel's vessel. Cas let out a gasp of pain and collapsed onto the ground, his shaking hand pressed over his wound, trying to stem the flow of his exposed Grace as it leaked into the air. Sam wiped the gore onto the shoulder of Castiel's coat, and stepped back as Dean launched himself to Cas' side, holding him seated-upright, hands fisted in his ruined coat. “Cain and Abel were born long after Lucifer was cast down to the Cage. The first human murder was committed of Cain's own free will.” Sam tucked the blade into his sleeve. “Cain ruled in Hell, but he never believed in Lucifer, because he never witnessed His glory. He was wrong not to believe in Lucifer... but he didn't believe in me.”

Sam took a step back, readying to leave.

A weak cough broke the tension. When Sam turned, Castiel had lifted his head. “What happened to Cain?” he rasped.

Sam's hands clenched tight, his knuckled straining and pale. “When I was ten years old, he attacked me in my sleep. And I killed him.” Sam tasted bile in the back of his throat. “I like you, Dean; I do. It's a weakness of mine. But, Lucifer, He won't share that weakness, and I won't be there to stop Him if and when He decides you're a liability to His cause. You understand, right?”

Dean didn't indicate either way, but Sam knew he understood.

“Okay,” he said. Sam took a step back and lingered in the doorway, Lily behind him. His attention shifted from Dean to Cas to Jess. He paused. “Jessica. I know my promises mean less than nothing to you, but Jesse—he'll be well-cared-for. He'll know family with us better than he ever did, here. I wish it wasn't necessary, but the truth is, if we left him in your care, he would kill you. I doubt he would even intend to, but it would happen.” Sam pursed his lips. “You have my apologies. It was never my intention to break families.”

“Go to Hell,” Jess whispered.

Sam raised his chin at that, looking truly like a king as he stared down his nose at them, but there was sadness in his eyes and in his voice as he said, “If only I could.”

“Sam,” Lily said then, soft, her hand on his back. Sam left the touch and allowed her to guide him away.

They turned, leaving at a stride as they hopped the stairs from the porch to the ground, taking off at a jog to catch up with the others. Around the block waited the others in the Escalade, doors open and ready as Sam and Lily launched themselves inside. With Andy at the wheel and Jake in the passenger's seat, Ava and Lily in the middle, that left Sam in the back row with Jesse. He crawled over the seats as Andy pulled away from the curb, dropping beside the boy, feeling too hollow to be properly triumphant.

“Where are we going?” Jesse asked, his voice drowned out by the roar of the engine.

“Home,” Sam answered. He hesitated at first, but remembered the comforts that Meg had once given him as a child, and held his arms open. The boy didn't wait to clamber into Sam's lap, and curled up against Sam's chest. His eyes closed, and Sam stroked one hand over his tiny head. He wondered what Meg had thought of him when he had been this small.

“Do you have a mom and dad?”

Sam exhaled, settling his back against one side of the car, his legs stretched out onto the seat. “I have a father,” Sam answered. “But he's more like a teacher. I have a sister, though; she took care of me when I was a child.”

“Is she nice?”

“Most of the time,” Sam agreed with a wry smile.

“And pretty?” Jesse's eyes remained closed. “In books, the mom is always supposed to be pretty.”

“Did you think your mom was pretty?” Sam asked, curious.

“I guess,” Jesse said, sounding reluctant. “What about yours?”

Sam contemplated. “When I was growing up, she looked different. She looked like the body she'd been born into, back then. Now, she picked someone similar, so yeah—she's pretty. Beautiful, even.”

Jesse let out a breath. “I hope she likes me,” he murmured.

“I think she will,” Sam replied, rubbing circles into the boy's back.

“Do you like me?”

Sam let his eyes fall closed. “Yeah, Jesse, you're a good kid. I like you.”

Sam wondered if this was what it was like; having a younger brother.

He found he didn't mind it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	38. 3:13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for helping me crack over 100 bookmarks, over 400 kudos, and over 11k hits! Wow, you guys seriously get shit done!! I'm really glad I've gotten such a great response and that you're all (mostly) still here on the journey. Thank you, really. Your comments never cease to make me smile. 
> 
> TBK is almost a year in the making! I can't believe it. This fic literally took over my life.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Ker, _no!_ ”

To his credit, Jesse did not shriek when Ker pounced on him and pinned him down, but he made a strangled sound of protest that was cut off when the breath rushed from his lungs.

“ _Ker!_ ” Sam commanded.

Obediently, Ker backed away, leaving a winded but unwounded Jesse.

Sam strode over, offering a hand and pulling the boy up. “I apologize. She's never done that before.”

“I had hamburger for lunch,” Jesse said in a wheeze.

Sam snorted. In Hell, he had placed torn souls before her snout, and Ker hadn't so much as snapped at it before his order. No, this was different.

Sam frowned, then was struck with realization. It wasn't that Jesse smelled like meat, he smelled like _prey_. Under the scent of whatever he'd eaten, Jesse smelled like a broken soul—part demon, part human. Not so human as Sam's warriors, but not so demon as the demons themselves. He smelled like fair game.

Sam scoffed, and proceeded to rub his open hand over Jesse's hair, his face, across his clothes, his back, marking Jesse with his scent so Ker and the pack would know he was off-limits.

Sam turned to his Hounds. He signaled for them to lie down, irritated with his own oversight. They sank to their bellies, watching him with hazy-red eyes.

It unsettled Sam, the difference between the Hounds in Hell and here on Earth. In Hell, they had been proud creatures, pale and regal. Here on the surface, the Hounds looked like intangible creatures made of smoke. Of course, to the human eye, the Hounds were invisible—but to Sam, to the demons, to Sam's warriors and to Jesse, they were real and true. As true as they would be to the angels when the pack ripped through their wings and carried off their halos as trophies.

Hellhounds had originated in Heaven, after all—the Greek legends of Artemis' dogs was based in truth, in a way; they had belonged to the archangels in the beginning, but those that were loyal to Lucifer were cast down when he Fell.

Now they were loyal to Sam.

“They'll leave you alone, now.” Sam brushed dirt from Jesse's shoulder. “Sorry. Let's try that again.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hold still, Cas,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

Cas' face was impassive, and that only made Dean more restless. He didn't so much as flinch away, despite the face that his torso was bare. He perched on one of Bobby's kitchen stools; Dean sat on top of the table, an array of medical supplies lay beside him. “I'm a soldier, Dean. This is not the first time I've been wounded.”

Dean scowled, jaw tense as he poured a stream of rubbing alcohol onto a swatch of cotton gauze. “Shut up, Cas, just hold still.”

Dean dabbed at Cas' wound with an alcohol-soaked pad, disinfecting the torn edges of his flesh. Though his face remained straight, a twitch made itself known in Cas' temple. Dean worked quickly before he tossed the gauze away, grabbing instead a curved needle tied with black thread. The first pierce of metal through air-chilled flesh wrought the softest of huffs through Cas' nose, his lips pursed in discomfort. “This is unnecessary, Dean. I can heal it myself.”

“Then why haven't you?” Dean asked, pulling the thread through. He made another stitch. “I'll tell you why. Because you're still leaking glowsticks, just like you were yesterday. If that poor bastard you're possessing has any sort of immune system, then stitching him up is the first step to him healing.” Five stitches, then ten. Drops of blood welled up where the friction irritated the punctures. Castiel was silent, and his stillness made Dean's voice go quiet in response. He paused and looked up, making cautious eye contact. “We need you on your A-game, Cas. Me and Jess and Jo and my family—we're just human. You're the best damn chance we have, and if that means you need to take a couple days to rest and get better, then that's what you'll do.” Dean looked back to the wound, stitching it together slowly. He was careful to keep his eyes away from Cas' as he worked. “We need a miracle, Cas. You're the best one we've got.”

“Dean,” Cas said quietly, and paused.

“Cas,” Dean all but begged. “C'mon, don't.” Dean finished his stitches and tied off the cord, worrying his lip with his teeth as he swiped over it again with disinfectant and patched the wound with gauze. He sealed off the edges with heavy tape before he set it aside and rested his palm over the wound, warm and firm.

“Dean,” Castiel repeated. His fingers touched Dean's wrist and curled around the bones and flesh. “You are a good man.”

“Not good enough,” Dean replied quietly. “Not good enough to save Sam. Not enough to save Jesse.”

Castiel slid off the stool, standing in the space between Dean's legs and letting his hand curl around the back of Dean's neck. Dean leaned into the touch, moved forward until his forehead was pressed to Castiel's sternum, feeling the warmth from his flesh against the coolness of his own clammy skin. Slowly, Castiel released his wrist, his fingers curling around Dean's temples and into his hair, following the shape of his skull down to his spine, over and over and over until Dean was suppressing shivers.

“Saving the world doesn't mean you have an obligation to save every man, woman, and child,” Cas said quietly. “Because you can't save everyone, Dean. You try—but it isn't possible, not for Heaven, and not for a single man.” He ran his fingers through Dean's hair, tentative, but firm.

The skin of Dean's cheeks was sticking to Cas' torso. Strangely enough, it wasn't entirely unpleasant. His palm was sweaty where it rested over the bandage. “I want to be better. I need to be better. For everyone.”

“You don't need to be anything but what you already are,” Cas said. His thumb rubbed back and forth over Dean's hairline, the beads of sweat there making the movement smooth. “This life you've led—it's made you as strong as it's made you soft. You're a different man than I've known you as in the past—in the future—in another time altogether. I think you're better for it.”

Dean huffed. Part of him wanted to question what Cas meant, but the other part of him knew he'd only be left more confused. But still... he wanted to know. “How?”

Cas rubbed the shell of Dean's ear with one finger, almost... curious. “I like that you have friends and family. I like the kind of person that happiness makes you. You're still very... _Dean,_ underneath it all. Angels—we don't just see your world. When we're allowed, we can see into others. And I've seen the suffering that life could've given you, Dean Winchester. I've seen what it turns you into. And I like you better like this.”

Dean didn't know what to say to that. Instead, he traced the edges of Cas' bandage. Cas touched him with reverence, softness, in such a way that Dean hadn't been touched for a long time. Certainly not since Hell.

He threaded his hands into Dean's hair and tilted his head until Dean met his eyes. Castiel swept over his features with his eyes, a look there that Dean might've said seemed _proud_. Prideful. But angels did not feel such things.

“What they showed me was as much to inform me as it was to warn me,” Cas said quietly. “Once, in another place, I abandoned Heaven and stood against it in your name. And we won, Dean, but not without cost.” He stroked Dean's cheek with the backs of his knuckles. Dean felt his face heat; his heart raced. “I was only a soldier then; a captain of my own garrison, yes—but still just a soldier. Now, Michael has given me more priviledge. He desperately wants me on his side, and I am. But he knows that, first and foremost, I am on yours. You have my loyalty. And I know that someday, I will have yours.”

“You have mine,” Dean said, gruffly embarrassed as he fiddled with a loose string on his denim. “Cas, I—”

“Hush, Dean. I'm... _happy_ you feel that way. And I want to thank you for stitching me up.”

Dean huffed and gently butted Cas' sternum with his forehead, a simple affection that he would afford Jess or Jo, and he found himself surprised he felt comfortable enough to share it with Cas. “You take care of me, I take care of you,” Dean replied. He slid off the edge of the table, directly into Cas' personal space. He flushed at the closeness and made to move around, debris from Cas' rehabilitation ready to be thrown out.

Cas allowed it, watching as Dean put the excess away, and stiffly made to put on his ruined shirt.

“Hey, hey!” Dean protested. “Cas, it's not gonna happen.” He snatched the bloodstained thing out of his hands. “We'll wash it and see if we can save it, but my money's on no. Come with me; you can wear something else for now.”

As Dean grumbled under his breath, Castiel leaned forward to press his lips to Dean's cheek. Dean froze in shock, hands clenching around the fabric.

“Cas,” he breathed. “Why did you—?”

Castiel blinked, head tilted. “Is that not an acceptable gesture of thanks?”

There was a sound from the doorway—Dean spun around quickly enough to catch a glance of the grinning Jo and Jess, eyes sparkling with mischief as they subtly cave Cas a thumbs-up.

Dean's whole body went flushed and irritated and hot. Upon looking at Cas, he looked both vaguely satisfied and bashful.

Dean dropped the shirt.

Jess and Jo took off.

“You—I—!” Dean stuttered. He launched off after them.

Shrieks of laughter and joyous fear echoed through the house.

Bobby wandered into the kitchen, grumbling about damn-fool kids. He gave Castiel a look. But there was something there in his face that was more than what it seemed.

Despite the impending Apocalypse going on around them, the old house had life (though if Dean caught Jess and Jo as he wanted, perhaps not for much longer).

 

* * *

 

 

“Where's your puppy?” Meg asked as she strode into the room, interrupting Sam from his work. He sat at a desk in one of the hospital rooms, an office meant for a doctor that he'd claimed for his own. Though if it weren't for the desktop lamp, Meg might've thought it a pile of books and papers, stacked halfway up the wall.

Sam huffed, not looking up from the finger that traced over some unknown boundary on the map. “He's asleep.”

“It's barely ten,” Meg protested.

“And he's eight years old,” Sam replied. “He's had a rough few weeks. Let him sleep. He made great strides with the pack today.”

Meg dropped onto a chair; air hissed from the cheap cushion, but she paid it no mind. She craned her head to look at what Sam was inspecting. “Which state?”

“Oregon,” he answered, placing his other index finger on the map, tracing in another direction. “There's a legend I've been researching, one that speaks of a place of great power that was drawn upon by a great evil. And it looks like...” Sam's fingers drew together, fingertips touching, and he made a satisfied sound. “I've found it.”

Meg pulled her chair closer. “River Grove?”

“At the intersection of two ley lines,” Sam said, tapping the spot. “A hidden little powerhouse.”

She frowned, smoothing a wrinkle out of the map. “That's great and all, but why would we be going to bumfuck nowhere?”

Sam snorted softly, and finally turned to her. He pushed his hair back out of his face. It was getting too long. “Meg, we're up to forty-six Seals. We've got twenty left to go. I know there's a list a mile long that we can choose from, but the stronger the Seals we break, the stronger He'll be when He rises.We've been compromising to avoid Heaven's interference. I'm not willing to do that anymore, not now that we have Jesse. We can do this.”

Meg leaned forward, exhaling through her nose, her body tensed with focus. “What do you have in mind?”

Sam reached for a list on his desk and plucked it from underneath a closed atlas. It was rolled closed and sealed with wax; parchment. Sam tapped it against his other palm, and did not open it. “Strong Seals. Strong allies. You're familiar with Samhain?”

Meg nodded simply. “The Rise of Samhain, that's one. Another?”

Sam traced his finger along the edge of the rolled paper. “The Whore of Babylon is another, and the demon Delilah. And we could use Alastair's assistance. Demons aside, there's the execution of Noah's creatures, the stealing of senses, the death of immortals, and the tyranny of Herod. But I have plans for River Grove.”

“Tell me,” Meg said.

Sam's finger caught on the parchment; a drop of blood welled up, staining the edge of the scroll a rusty red. “What do you remember of the blight of Roanoke?”

Meg smiled wide, baring her teeth. “The plague of Croatoan? Oh, I remember.”

Sam leaned back in his seat, finally noticing his paper cut. He placed the scroll aside, leaving a bloody fingerprint. “Father infiltrated a massive corporation, I've heard. And he's been working on developing the plague itself. I want to use it.”

“Killing humans is always fun,” Meg agreed with an arch of her eyebrow. “But there's gotta be more to it.”

“The Ferryman's Task,” Sam said, sucking the blood from his index finger.

Meg perked up. “The harvest of a thousand mortal souls?”

“We'll have twenty-four hours,” Sam replied quietly. “And there's no way that Heaven won't interfere. There's a good chance that most of my legion will die, trained or not. And...” His expression went hard. “It's entirely possible that my friends will be killed.”

“That's what they're for,” Meg replied dismissively, and at Sam's offended look, added, “You weren't supposed to get attached. Yes, they're your friends, but they're your soldiers first. Their purpose is to fight and die for you. It's _you_ that has to survive, not us.”

“Don't say that.” Sam turned back to the desk, hand smoothing over the tide of papers. His face was hidden in his unruly bangs as they drooped over his eyes. “They're important to me. So are you. And I don't want to lose any of you.”

“Sam,” Meg said, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. He looked to her, jaw set and expression carefully blank, but his eyes were open and soft and sad. It was pitiful how much he looked like a lost Hellpup. And though she didn't relish the thought of kicking him while he was down, he needed a reminder of just why he was here. “It's _potentially_ us, or it's Him. There's no choice here. And death isn't guaranteed. We can be better than death. We already have been.”

Sam closed his eyes. He nodded once, and with a _swish_ , he stood. He held the scroll in his hand. “I'm going to deliver this to Father, then I'm going to bed. If Jesse wakes up, send him to me; I'll take care of him.”

Meg watched as he walked away. Blood dripped from his paper-cut finger, splattering onto the tile floor.

She wondered if it wasn't some sign, telling of a change in the tides yet to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I skipped last week. I'm massively stressed out at school, and honestly I didn't even think I'd get this out. Sorry if it's short, and Happy Halloween in advance.
> 
> Also, note the emergence of a new pairing in Dean and Cas. Don't you worry if Destiel isn't your thing—it's minor, really. There probably won't be anything graphic or even really showy. They're comparatively G-rated. Sorry if it seems out of character—I tried to make it clear in the fic, but I'm not sure how well I succeeded. 
> 
> It's been demonstrated subtly a few times in canon that angels can see other timelines, most notably in Lucifer referencing "I told you, we will always end up here" when Sam says 'yes' in Detroit, even though he shouldn't have any knowledge of what happened in Dean's experience of 2014, as that timeline ceased to exist when Sam and Dean joined back up. 
> 
> So, basically? Castiel knows about what happened in canon!verse. And Castiel has been given more power in TBK!verse; he's not quite Zachariah's level, but he's right around there, because Michael knows what Castiel can do, and he wants to keep him close. 
> 
> And if Dean seems weird, I'll just quietly remind you all that this version of Dean grew up with a loving mother and a little brother, many more happy childhood memories, and a more stable life. He's more experienced in dealing with his emotions, and he's just... softer. It doesn't make him any less badass. It doesn't make him any less family-oriented. But this Dean allows himself to feel and to deal with those feelings (or Jo and Jess beat it out of him). And because of this contrast to canon!Dean as we know him, Castiel is more protective of Dean as a whole, because he wants to prevent him from feeling that pain (and he's also still fully connected and in-sync with the Heavenly Host). 
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> P.S: Castiel understands what kisses to the cheek demonstrate. However, when Jo and Jess encouraged him falsely, he more or less played along and played dumb when caught.  
> 


	39. 3:14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Life is getting the best of me lately. Hopefully I'll get more written over my upcoming school break.

They set wards around the town, carved into trees and rocks and dirt, a barrier that would contain the newly-born hellions from escaping too far outside the city limits. The second layer would do what they could to keep out the warriors of Heaven. They sent lesser demons—weaklings that would draw no attention with no demonic omens, under strict orders to leave no body count. A scant few days would give them all the bodies they could slay.

Sam drew up all of the contagion that he could; he sneered when he learned that it was Brady at the head of the operation—Niveus Pharmaceuticals. This would be his trial run, and more would be developed in the time it took for their God to come and walk the earth, ready to be used at His command.

In the meantime, this was his task.

Nurtured into existence from the blood of his father, Azazel, the virus had been named Croatoan. Ten syringes of syrupy, congealed blood; one each for each of the task force set to plague the town from all sides. One for Sam, for Meg, for Jesse; for Jake, Ava, Andy, and Lily; and one each for the guest stars of the night—Ruby, Abaddon, and Lilith.

Sam had been hesitant about Jesse coming along, but Meg had insisted. The sooner he made his first kill, the sooner he would understand what was expected of him. The sooner he would know what it was to be one of them; a warrior, and no longer a child. Sam didn’t like it, but he knew Meg was right. However, his hesitance didn’t stop him from feeling strangely protective over Jesse’s persistent innocence.

But what could he do? Sam’s own first kill had come when he was ten, and that was before they were at war. He hadn’t had anyone to watch his back—but Jesse would.

They would manage the killing.

And they would have to manage the weather.

The snow had been coming down almost endlessly—winter in the midwest was brutal, but winter in Oregon was even more bitter. February was not a kind month to the unprepared, but neither was war kind to those laden-down with heavy clothing.

Sam and Meg and the warriors met in a group to plan their armor and their outerwear—layers of thin thermals fitted under body armor, thick socks under barely-insulated but sturdy boots, flannel shirts over bulletproof vests to camouflage themselves to the inevitable hunters that would appear somehow. (Even Meg wore the armor, stating that she rather liked her vessel, and she’d rather it stay alive and functional and not full of holes.)

This was the second major battle. Though this seal in particular wasn’t absolutely necessary, Sam found he was unwilling to lose. The more they sacrificed in Lucifer’s name, the stronger He would be. This was His due.

Sam would give anything for Him.

Anything.

 

* * *

 

 

February was Dean’s least-favorite. Winter in general was his least-favorite. Just like the hot days of summer were his least-favorite.

Extreme weather overall, to be honest. It just wasn’t his thing.

But there was something about spiced rum cider and flannel blankets and bad movies that made the season almost bearable. Despite all their war planning, Dean made a point to crash on the couch at least once a day with Jess or Jo or his mother or Adam or any combination therein. He’d even managed to get Cas on one memorable occasion, shoulder-to-shoulder as they watched Buffy reruns and Dean theorized whether or not Joss Whedon had a hunter background.

Things with Cas had been... not odd, really. And not entirely uncomfortable. But there was something there now that hadn’t always been, a tendril of warmth inside their silences, a sort of glow that lingered even after Cas had removed his hand from those brief touches to Dean’s shoulder. Dean was reluctant to analyze it, and even more reluctant to act on it. The timing wasn’t right, he told himself. And Castiel wasn’t... he wasn’t human. He wasn’t like Dean. He was something _other_ , untouchable, and for all Dean’s cheesy _Victoria’s Secret_ fantasies, the thought of touching an angel with his hands, passing on that dirt and grime and filth—it made him want to retch and maybe cry and lock himself away. He couldn’t be responsible for that. He couldn’t imagine leaving his grubby handprints on the memory of the light that had pulled him from agony and torture.

Cas deserved better than that. And Dean might’ve failed in Hell, but he wouldn’t fail Cas.

But he wasn’t an idiot. He saw the looks that Jo and Jess gave him, short little glances between him and Cas, the way that one of them would take him aside when Dean was busy with something else, trading whispers. And he loved his girls—he did. Jess was the closest thing he’d ever had to a sister of his own, and Dean would always love Jo, no matter how old they got. But whatever they were doing, whatever they were pushing and encouraging between him and Cas—it wasn’t up to them. It wasn’t their business. And they would do well to leave it alone, but Dean didn’t know how to make them do just that. Encouraging it, encouraging _them_ , encouraging _Cas—_ it wasn’t right.

So he started avoiding them. All of them.

He started wandering the perimeter of Bobby’s property, never announcing himself as he slipped out, and Cas had sense enough to never bother him when he did. The cold brought a kind of clarity that Dean needed.

He was twenty-six, now; had been for over a month. A few months from now, Sam would be twenty-two. Come September, Adam would be fifteen (Dean could hardly believe it; Adam would always be nine and adorable. The thought of him as fifteen and angsty was almost laughable).

(Adam was too young to be wrapped up in this. He needed to be kept safe. But Adam was getting restless, and he _was_ a good hunter, but he was too young, would _always_ be too young.)

Dean sighed, his wandering coming to a halt in the middle of the ice-crusted scrap yard. He pushed ice off the hood of a junked Dodge Neon and hopped up to take a seat, careful to keep his thick coat tucked under his butt to prevent a seriously unfortunate case of frostbite. He stared off at the edge of the treeline, taking in the uneven, shaggy evergreens, heavy with snow and contaminated icicles.

He closed his eyes.

Dean felt someone in front of him.

“Cas,” he sighed.

“You’re troubled,” Cas said softly, not a greeting or a question, but a statement. Dean could feel his proximity, but barely felt the radiating warmth that he would feel from a human. Cas wasn’t human. Even if, when he reached out to let his slightly-chilled fingertips touch Dean’s temple, he felt like one. “What’s wrong?”

Dean turned his face away, swallowing thickly. “I thought we agreed that this was my personal time, Cas,” he said.

He could practically hear Cas’ confusion when he said, “We’ve agreed on nothing of the sort.”

“It’s a silent agreement, Cas,” Dean said, and couldn’t find it in himself to be outright angry—just resigned. He pushed himself up, knowing better than to let Cas box him in, and started off in any direction, headed anywhere. “And silent agreements are sacred.”

“I’m not sure how you intended me to be aware of such an arrangement,” Cas said by way of complaint, sounding irritated.

“Cas, you just _know_.” Dean felt his lungs burn with the cold as he hastened his step. “Whatever, just leave it alone.”

“You’re upset.”

“I said _leave it!_ ” Dean snapped, not even sure why he was angry.

A hand snagged the back of Dean’s jacket, and Dean jerked to a stop, gnashing his teeth. He wondered how he always seemed to end up here. He certainly didn’t like it. Didn’t Castiel have anything else to _do_ beside bothering him? Shouldn’t he be doing important angel-y things, _save the world_ things? In fact, shouldn’t they _all_ be doing those type of world-saving things?

Why weren’t they?

“You’re not out here for shits and giggles, Cas. You’re not here for me. So you might as well tell me what’s going on and get to the damn point.”

Castiel was silent. Slowly, Dean felt the point of contact between them fall away as Cas released his grip. Dean didn’t turn around. “Sam’s armies have disappeared. They’re up to something.”

“That’s great,” Dean huffed. He wasn’t aware that the pit of his stomach could feel any more cold than it had a few moments before. “Any idea what that _something_ is?”

Silence.

Dean scoffed, hands fisting at his sides. He started walking again, taking hard steps and relishing in the crunch of stale, dry snow beneath his boots. “Yeah, that’s helpful, Cas; real helpful!” He snapped, and felt a jolt of fury at the sound of Cas’ footsteps following him. “ _Houston, we have a problem. We’re not really sure what the problem is, but we’re pretty sure it’s there!”_ Dean’s voice was mocking and cruel and he was just so _angry._ Why did it have to be Sam? Why wouldn’t he just listen? How the hell was he going to save the kid brother that didn’t seem to be interested in being saved?

And then Dean stumbled forward a few steps. He caught himself. He turned, absolutely furious, to face an equally-angry Castiel. “What the fuck?! What are you, man, _five?_ We gonna push and shove like little fuckin’ kids?”

“Well, if you insist on _behaving_ like one,” Cas said, the tension in his body expanding his frame. His expression was stony. “This is a _war_ , Dean; don’t you _understand?”_ He took a step forward, his hands making hard contact with Dean’s chest—and then another step, punctuating his pursuit with sharp words. “I—don’t—have—time—to deal with your _pathetic_ — _petulant—whining!_ ”

Dean stumbled back, his back making contact with the unexpected width of a tree trunk. He wheezed as Cas closed in on him, pinning him where he stood with a forearm across his chest. His face screwed up and he looked away. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t _right._

“Look at me, Dean,” Cas commanded, harsh and impatient. When Dean didn’t, he grabbed Dean’s chin with his free hand, forcing him to make eye contact. “I don’t like doing this. I don’t enjoy treating you this way. But I _don’t_ enjoy bearing the brunt of your temper when I have done nothing to earn _anything_ but your respect.”

Guilt, that’s what that feeling was. Dean’s chest felt thick with it. “I know,” he said. It slipped out between his gritted teeth.

“Then _why—”_ Cas said, “—do you keep running away from me? If you’re upset, we can talk like _adults._ I’m a soldier, Dean, and I dislike feeling like I’m corralling _children_.”

“I haven’t—”

“Look where we are!” Cas snapped. “I have to pin you down to get you to face me, Dean. What is bothering you so much that it’s gotten us here?”

Dean grit his teeth. “I’m just—” he hissed his frustration out between his teeth “—confused.”

Cas released his grip on Dean’s chin, the arm across his chest becoming a single hand keeping him placed by a grip on his shoulder—the shoulder bearing Cas’ mark. His face softened, head tilted just so, and Dean knew that looking away would only frustrate Cas more, so he closed his eyes and hoped for the best.

“About what?” Cas asked, his thumb rubbing unconscious circles into Dean’s flesh, still impossibly warm through Dean’s jacket and layered flannel.

“I don’t— _Cas_ ,” Dean sighed. “I’m okay, alright? I’ll stop avoiding you. Just... don’t make me talk about this. Not yet.”

Cas leveled Dean with a long look. Dean winced. Cas sighed. “If that’s what you wish,” Cas said. “But I am... _here_ , Dean. I know you. There is nothing you could tell me that would have me think of you any differently.”

Dean snorted and gave Cas a light shove, offering a smile as an olive branch. But before he could make a hasty escape, Cas stepped back into his space and stroked the back of Dean’s neck with his fingertips. Dean couldn’t quite stamp out a full-body shudder, but managed to clamp down his blissful noise to a muffled hum of assent.

Cas nearly smiled.

“If I upset you, Dean, you only need to say so. You understand, right?”

Dean nodded.

“Good. Come on, then—”

“Castiel!”

Cas turned, the tenderness wiped from his face, his body rigid as he turned to the voice, making a subtle step to stand in front of Dean.

The boy before them couldn’t have been older than Adam; a tiny little thing with round cheeks and huge eyes that gazed upon Castiel as if he were the sun.

Dean found he didn’t like it.

Upon seeing the boy, Castiel relaxed, if minutely. “Samandriel. What’s the problem?”

The boy bounded forward, trembling, and seized Castiel’s hand. “It’s the Hellchild. He’s launched an attack, and there are wards to keep us out. You know wards best; we need you.”

“Of course,” Castiel agreed. “Why has Michel sent you? Why hasn’t he summoned me himself?”

The boy swallowed convulsively. “Michael is making plans to approach the vessel.” His eyes flickered to Dean. “He means to descend, to persuade the Hellchild from his goals before he raises Lucifer.”

Dean felt a thrill of cold fear. Castiel’s face went hard. “So be it.”

“Cas!” Dean snapped.

Cas rounded on him. “Dean. You must prepare yourself.”

Dean swallowed. “Why?”

One step, two, and Cas was cradling Dean’s face in his hands. “Michael is coming.”

“The archangel,” Dean said. “To kill Sam?”

“I don’t know. But if he’s looking for a vessel, we don’t have long.”

Dean frowned, not comprehending.

Cas stroked his thumbs over Dean’s cheekbones, looking carefully but inexplicably sad. “You’re the vessel, Dean. You’re Michael’s vessel.”

A shriek of sound split the air, one that had Castiel and Samandriel looking skyward, but had Dean’s head going fuzzy. He heard Castiel call his name, but there was nothing he could do—his vision was already going dark as he fell unconscious into the circle of Cas’ arms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that **TBK is on hiatus** until such a time as [the author](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com) gets their shit together. Feel free to [KINDLY prod them or ask any lingering questions](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/ask), but understand that they are very busy with Finals Week at their college.
> 
> Thank you for your understanding, and thank you all for getting TBK to a place where it's actually missed!!


	40. 3:15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand this chapter is really short. However, I'm suffering from really bad writer's block and I'd rather put _something_ up than nothing at all. This isn't a guarantee that I'll have anything to put up next week. In fact, if all goes well, I probably won't since (if everything finally gets cleared) I'm scheduled for surgery and will spend a fair while after being very, very drugged. But maybe that's what I need to get something going again.
> 
> Sorry to disappoint. I hope all of you had a very happy holidays! Happy New Year!
> 
>  **EDIT:** I know it's been a long time since I've posted a chapter, but rest assured, this fic is not abandoned!! Just on a very long hiatus while the author gets her life in order. But to make up for the wait, here is a very excellent [fanvideo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lEfat6kuLkE) by the lovely [fluxvents](http://fluxvents.tumblr.com) that you should all go watch and [reblog](http://lucmorningstar.tumblr.com/post/92591287222/fluxvents-if-you-watch-in-720p-the-font-starts)!!

The screams of humans were just as irritating as the creatures themselves. Only as they fell silent did Sam feel any thrill or joy in his task.

Two hundred souls. That was a low estimate, of course, considering Meg’s bloodlust and Abaddon’s command of Persephone, who ripped off as many heads as she could crunch between her teeth. Sam’s own hounds howled their joy as they were let loose to hunt as they would, only after dragging the first of many screaming, yet-living corpses-to-be to the feet of Hell’s newest prince, holding his small blade in shaking hands as he learned what it was to split skin and force out life. Jesse was a natural at killing, and it was after that first kill that Sam let the hounds go, keeping his charge at his side as he cut his way through humans and Croatoan-infected beasts alike.

He liked the mindlessness of the killing. He liked the peace it afforded him. He liked the scent of blood in the night air, steadily creeping toward dawn in the first several hours of the twenty-four allotted.

His warriors strayed, but never too far, each claiming kills as varied as themselves. Ava preferred quick, concentrated cuts to slice open arteries; Jake favored guns and no-fuss shots; Andy cracked skulls with an iron rod, casual and at his own pace; Lily whirled and shrieked with laughter as she let loose the terrors of her skin, touching the terrified humans only to see their relief—at least before their hearts seized and they collapsed, eyes wide and horrified in death. Jesse preferred the surprise, running to those not yet changed and begging for help before he would slip a blade through the cracks in their spine, downing his victims before he opened their skin. Meg preferred using her hands to cause fear and panic, throwing people and objects into the air with barely a thought, directing various projectiles to pierce flesh, whether debris from the battle or parts of other humans. Abaddon simply killed one and all in any way she could.

And Sam—Sam killed deftly with his angel blade and his borrowed Grace, each and every one in Lucifer’s name. He pledged each soul to another broken Seal. Another sacrifice in the name of his God.

And he would do _anything_ for his God.

A stab to the gut. _Lucifer._ A slice to the jugular. _Lucifer._ A shove through the spine. _Lucifer._

All for Lucifer.

In a way, the killing was monotonous. There was no challenge in it. It was the slaughter of animals, plain and simple; stupid animals who had no defenses. Sam knew it was stupid to wish for a real fight, considering the types of enemies that a true fight would bear, but it didn’t stop him from thinking that any demon could have made these kills. If it weren’t for his job of holding together the perimeter wards, he wouldn’t bother to be here at all.

A quick sweep of the eyes found his warriors holding their own. That, at least, was a relief. He was thankful for the time he’d put in to train them. Maybe they would all make it out of here, after all.

And then he felt an impossible wash of power, a crash against the barrier that Sam held together with his Grace. And he knew.

He’d spoken too soon.

 

* * *

 

 

_Dean..._

 

_Dean..._

 

There was pressure all around him, the sort of terrible tension that predated the most awful sort of migraines. Dean couldn’t feel his body, but he figured it felt unbearably heavy. When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by light, by fire—but a fire that didn’t burn so much as glow. It was... soothing.

_Dean, you must awake. I need your consent._

The voice that spoke in his ears was absolutely lovely.

“Who are you?” Dean asked, his voice barely a whisper of breath.

_I am Michael. I am here to help you. Let me in, Dean. You must say yes._

“Why?”

He got the feeling that the voice was less than pleased with his curiosity—but Dean couldn’t manage much more than that when he felt so weighed-down and drugged.

_Because your brother threatens the safety of the world my father built. But it is not too late for his redemption. I must make him try to see reason._

Dean struggled against the force that held him. “ _I_ can do that.”

_No, Dean. You must not. If you try to face him alone, your life will be forfeit. Allow me the use of your vessel and I will do all I can to save him. No harm will come to you if you allow me in. It will be temporary._

Dean stilled, exhausted. “How do I know that for sure?”

_You have my word._

“Words don’t mean shit.”

The voice—Michael—sounded insulted... and angry.

_I am offering you safety, Dean, and your brother mercy. Mercy that he does not yet deserve. This is your best chance of peace. This is your best chance of averting the Apocalypse. **I** am your best chance. Despite your favor for Castiel, there is little he can offer you. **I** can give you what I promise. You were built to contain me when I walk the Earth, and I will not abuse that. Allow me in, Dean. Give me your consent. Say yes._

Dean wanted to resist, but he was so tired, and that voice was so nice; almost like a song—

“Okay,” Dean breathed. “Sure. Yes.”

He could feel the fire’s pride. It started to brighten, to immerse Dean in a blinding void, and it tore at his body, at his skin, _clawing_ to get in, and Dean _screamed—_

 

* * *

 

He felt the moment he clicked into place, so secure, held inside the warmth of the human, of _Dean Winchester,_ and felt the tarnish of his soul against his Grace—

Michael’s eyes opened, taking in the barren trees above, the branches casting shadows into the ice and snow, cold in a way Michael hadn’t felt since—

He stood, brushing the snow from the back of Dean’s pants, inspecting the man’s hands; scarred, calloused, but strong. A worker’s hands. A hunter’s hands.

He looked up.

Castiel stood before him, vessel’s face impassive, but Grace fluctuating wildly. Uncertain, then. And angry. Yes, he was _most certainly_ angry.

“Control yourself,” Michael said, then paused—what a strange thing it was to have to channel sound through a mouthpiece. He frowned and carried on, directing his attention at Castiel. “You are protective; it’s understandable. But you know who he was created for. And you know he will come to no harm.”

Castiel pursed his lips (a _human_ gesture, and perhaps Michael has making a mistake to allow him on the surface for such a duration if his soldier was picking up _human_ traits). He lowered his chin, but his shoulders tensed, and Michael instinctively reflected that posture when Castiel’s wings flared on the ethereal plane, a crackle of energy that expanded tumultuously around his vessel; a challenge that he clearly _wished_ to make, but had none of the power to follow through with. They both knew that. It didn’t make it any less insulting—or any less alarming that his subordinate would so obviously contemplate rebellion.

“Dean Winchester was created for no one,” Castiel said, careful to keep his voice neutral. “And seeing as it was I that put him back together, I would know.”

Michael’s temper bubbled, but in that instant, Castiel was gone.

Michael took the split-second he needed to find his control before, with a beat of his six massive wings, he pulled himself through reality to River Grove, Oregon—and impatiently sent his Grace crashing into the wards that held him out.

He wanted the Hellchild to know he was there.

He wanted him _scared._

Because barring the option to talk the boy out of his foolish and dangerous actions, Michael could not allow this to continue. The seals may have already been broken, but that was no reason for Lucifer to have the advantage of obtaining his true vessel when the battle for the world commenced.

When he escaped, he would find his boy dead and scattered across the ever-expanding multiverse.

It was no less than his traitorous brother deserved.

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Boy King: Pilot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/963826) by [maydei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/pseuds/maydei)




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